The Substitute Wife's Secret Heir

Elaina was jolted awake late that night by a commotion outside her hospital room door. She could hear her security detail speaking in low, firm tones to someone.

The door burst open.

Eleazar stumbled in, reeking of whiskey, his face a ghostly white under the dim hospital lights. He shoved past the bodyguard, his eyes wild and unfocused, muttering her name.

He didn't make it far. He collapsed onto the visitor's sofa, curling into a ball, a sheen of cold sweat on his forehead.

Before Elaina could react, her phone rang. It was Mrs. Petrov, their housekeeper, her voice frantic.

"Ma'am, it's Mr. Hudson... he couldn't find you at the apartment. He's been drinking. You know how his stomach gets..."

Acute gastritis. A problem that flared up whenever he was under immense stress.

Elaina looked at the man groaning on her sofa. This wasn't an attack. He was sick.

Her mind screamed at her to call a nurse, to have him removed. But her heart... her heart was a traitor.

"Ma'am, please," Mrs. Petrov begged. "He only ever calms down when you're there. Please."

With a sigh of resignation, Elaina ended the call and swung her legs out of bed.

As she approached the sofa, Eleazar seemed to sense her presence. His hand shot out, grabbing hers with a desperate, childish grip. His skin was fever-hot, but his palm was clammy with sweat.

Her resolve melted.

She sent her bodyguard for anti-spasmodic medication and a glass of warm water.

Getting him to take it was impossible. He was too drunk, too incoherent. Suddenly, his body convulsed. He was sick, vomiting all over his thousand-dollar suit and her clean hospital gown.

The acrid smell of bile and alcohol filled the small room. She fought back her own nausea, her hand steady on his back. He had a pathological obsession with cleanliness; he would be mortified when he sobered up.

She made a decision.

Summoning all her strength, she half-dragged, half-carried his dead weight into the en-suite bathroom. The space was tiny, forcing their bodies into a clumsy, intimate press.

She turned on the shower, aiming the warm spray at him. The water soaked his clothes, making the fine wool and cotton cling to the hard muscles of his body. Her cheeks burned. She tried to focus on the task, to ignore the feel of his skin, the heat of his body.

Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. As she worked it free, her knuckles brushed against his chest. Even in his stupor, his body tensed at her touch.

Her own heart skipped a beat.

Finally, she got him clean. She was soaked to the bone herself.

She maneuvered him back into the main room. The sofa was a lost cause. The only option was her bed.

After settling him under the covers, she changed into a fresh gown. She stood for a long time, just looking at him. His brow was furrowed in pain even in his sleep.

She hated him for his cruelty. But seeing him this vulnerable, this broken... it twisted the hate into something confusing and painful.

How were they ever going to untangle themselves from this mess?