His Stand-In Wife's Billion-Dollar Revenge

The fifth year of being Mrs. Stephens.

I sat in the back seat of my husband Simon Stephens' car, like a stranger sharing a ride.

The passenger seat was permanently reclined to exactly 115 degrees, the angle his childhood sweetheart found most comfortable.

Whenever I tried to adjust it, Simon would gently press down on my wrist.

"Iris Young, that adjustment lever sticks a little. Anna's back is bad, and she takes my car to physical therapy all the time. Fiddling with it back and forth will only break it. Would you mind sitting in the back? It's more spacious anyway."

I looked at those gentle eyes in the rearview mirror and silently swallowed the news that I'd found out I was pregnant today.

He had married me because my features bore a seventy-percent resemblance to Anna Henson, who had gone abroad.

Now that she was back, divorced, the passenger seat, the supplementary credit card, even the way he looked at me were all quietly changing hands.

The countdown in my phone's memo app, the one ticking down to the day I'd leave the Stephens family, had only three days left.

I stared at Anna Henson's latest social media post: "Someone still remembers my exact seat angle, down to the last degree."

Forget it. This was the last time I'd ever sit in this car anyway.

I sat in the back seat, cold air blowing against my face, my stomach churning in waves.

Simon's fingers adjusted the air vents in the front row, redirecting the airflow completely away from the passenger seat, even though no one was sitting there.

"Iris, are you cold back there?" He glanced at the rearview mirror, his voice warm and smooth.

"Anna can't tolerate cold. She can't handle even the slightest draft when she's in a car. I had the dealership fix the vent direction last night so it can't be moved. I'm afraid you'll just have to bear with it for now."

I looked at his eyes in the mirror and shoved the prenatal exam report I hadn't yet had a chance to take out back to the very bottom of my bag.

"It's fine. I'm not cold." I forced the corners of my mouth upward, my nails digging into my palms.

When we arrived at the Stephens estate, I finally understood why he'd gone to the trouble of pre-setting even the air vents in the car.

Anna Henson was already there.

My mother-in-law, Jean Stephens, was holding her hand.

And on Jean's wrist sat the jade bracelet I had begged for so many times but had never been allowed to touch.

"Anna, dear, this bracelet looks best against your skin tone."

"All those years you were abroad, I'd look at it every day and sigh. Now it's finally back where it belongs." Jean was beaming, unable to contain her delight.

I stood in the foyer like an outsider who had wandered into someone else's family gathering.

Simon walked over to me, casually unclasped the shawl from my shoulders, then turned and draped it around Anna Henson's shoulders.

"Anna, the old house is drafty. You just got back and you're not used to the cold yet. Don't let yourself freeze."

His voice was laced with undisguised tenderness.

I stood frozen, my gaze falling to his wrist. At the edge of his suit cuff, he wore a cufflink with a distinctive iris-flower design.

It was the same design Anna Henson had posted on social media before she returned.

Meanwhile, the anniversary cufflinks I had spent two weeks hand-polishing for our fifth wedding anniversary still sat in a drawer upstairs.

A spasm tore through my stomach. I clamped my hand over my mouth, turned, and rushed toward the first-floor bathroom.

I shut the door, braced myself against the sink, and dry-heaved until tears streamed down my face.

I stared at the face in the mirror, the face that looked seventy percent like Anna Henson's, and pulled out my phone to check the memo.

Countdown to leaving the Stephens family: 3 days.

A knock came from outside. Simon's voice: "Iris, are you feeling all right? Have you been wearing yourself out getting ready for the exhibition?"

I opened the door. He immediately offered me a towel, his eyes full of what looked like deep concern.

"Anna just got back tonight. She's been through a painful marriage, and she's emotionally fragile right now."

"You've always been the understanding one. Could you just be a little more patient with her?"

I looked at that face, the face I had loved for five years, and my voice came out rough. "Okay."

When I returned to the dining room to take my seat, I discovered that Anna was already sitting in the hostess's chair.

"Iris, dear, the light bothers Anna's eyes. The head of the table faces away from the window, so it won't strain them."

"I've had a chair added for you by the service entrance. It's closer to the kitchen, so it'll be easier for you to help with the dishes."

Jean arranged all of this in a tone of bored indifference.

I didn't argue.

She picked up an aromatherapy box from the table and praised it in front of everyone.

"Anna is always so thoughtful. This imported calming incense she brought back from abroad... just the scent alone makes my headaches disappear."

"Unlike some people, who trek off to some run-down chapel to bring back a dried-up little good-luck charm that reeks of ash."

My heart plummeted.

I had carried that charm back while pregnant, bowing at every step, climbing three thousand stairs on my knees to pray for her health.

Under the table, Simon squeezed my hand, his eyes soft with reassurance.

Then the butler began serving dinner.

The table was covered with raw marinated crab, sweet shrimp sashimi, and every variety of chilled seafood.

I froze.

I was pregnant.

"Why was the menu changed?" The words escaped before I could stop them.

I had specifically ordered warm, nourishing cooked dishes.

Simon smiled lightly.

"I thought the menu you picked was too heavy. Anna's been craving authentic seafood ever since she was abroad, so I went ahead and swapped everything out."

"Iris, you've never been a picky eater, have you?"

His gentle gaze reflected nothing but the color draining from my face.

I stared at the table full of raw, ice-cold seafood. A dull ache bloomed low in my abdomen.

"My stomach isn't feeling well today. I can't eat anything raw or cold." I set down my chopsticks.

Before Simon could respond, Anna's eyes were already rimmed with red.

"I'm sorry, Iris. Is it because I took your seat? Did that upset you? Maybe I should just skip dinner..."

"Anna, don't overthink it. Iris isn't that petty."

Simon pulled a tissue from the holder and handed it to her with tender concern, then turned to me.

"Iris, Anna's marriage abroad was suffocating. She went through hell. Don't use that tone with her. You'll scare her."

"How about I have the kitchen make you a bowl of plain noodles?"

I watched him peel crab for Anna with painstaking care, and my eyes burned.

From the side, Jean let out a cold scoff.

"If you ask me, we never should have let Anna go abroad in the first place."

"Some people only looked after the house during a vacancy and actually started believing they were irreplaceable."

My nails dug deep into my palms.

Looked after the house?

Three years ago, when Simon's company was on the brink of bankruptcy, the investor had demanded access to Anna's family connections before agreeing to any deal.

It was me who sat with that investor, drinking until I vomited blood, spending three days in the ICU, just to secure the contract that saved his company.

Simon had held my hand, bruised and swollen from the IV lines, and said, "Iris, thank you for being so understanding."

So that was the price of being understanding. Being replaceable at a moment's notice.

After dinner, everyone moved to the living room.

I sat in the corner of the sofa and took out my tablet, reviewing the final drafts for my solo exhibition the following week.

Anna walked over carrying a cup of tea. Her foot caught on something.

"Oh!"

The scalding tea splashed across my tablet and spattered the few remaining paper drafts beside me.

Water stains bled through the pages in an instant. Three years of work, destroyed.

I shot to my feet. "What are you doing?!"

Simon lunged forward and seized Anna's tea-splashed fingers.

"How could you be so careless? Are you burned?"

Once he confirmed Anna was unharmed, his brow furrowed and he turned to me.

"Iris, what's gotten into you lately? You left the cup right on the edge. Anna didn't notice it and knocked it over. That's all."

"It's just a few paintings. You can always redo them. What matters is that nobody got burned."

Just a few paintings.

Those were works I'd poured countless sleepless nights into, works that carried every hope I had for my career.

I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached.

The dinner ended.

Simon draped his jacket over Anna's shoulders, then turned to me.

"Anna just got back. She's living alone in that apartment and she's afraid of the dark. I can't just leave her."

"Iris, call yourself a ride home, okay? Be safe. Text me when you get there."

With that, he ushered Anna into the car.

I stood alone in the cold wind. The dragging pain low in my abdomen was getting worse.

Gritting my teeth against it, I flagged down a cab and went straight to my studio.

The exhibition was next week. I had to reorganize my backups.

I opened my laptop and tried to process the final five-million-dollar payment for the venue. The screen flashed a notification:

Your supplementary card has insufficient credit.

I froze. Simon had given me that card. There had never been a limit on it.

I pulled up the transaction history. Ten minutes ago, the primary cardholder had zeroed out the credit line.

Late that night, Simon finally came home.

He carried the scent of Anna's signature woody perfume. He sat on the edge of my bed and reached over to put his arm around my shoulders.

I flinched away.

His hand paused mid-air. Then he smiled faintly.

"Iris, I froze the card because there's something I want to ask you."

"Your exhibition. Could you give the naming rights to Anna? She really needs a platform like that to rebuild her confidence."

"You love me so much. You'll say yes, won't you?"

I stared at him, bile rising in my throat.

I didn't dignify that absurd logic with a response. I lowered my eyes and tapped the screen of my phone to life.

The words in my memo app glared back at me:

Countdown to leaving the Stephens family: 2 days.

"Simon, do you have any idea what that exhibition means to me?"

My voice trembled.

He let out a soft sigh.

"Iris, Anna has depression. Her doctor said art therapy would really help her."

"You're just putting on a little show for fun, but she needs this to survive."

"When did you become so heartless? This isn't like you."

"No." Every word was deliberate. "That exhibition is my life's work. I will not give it up."

Disappointment clouded his eyes. "Cool off for a while."

The next morning, I grabbed my flash drive and rushed to the gallery I'd partnered with.

The moment I reached the entrance, I stopped cold.

On the poster by the front door, my name had been stripped away. In its place: Anna Henson: A Homecoming Art Exhibition.

I stormed into the office and confronted the gallery owner, a man who'd been Simon's close friend for years.

He kept his head down, mopping sweat from his forehead as he explained.

"Ms. Young, I'm so sorry. Simon sent his legal team over last night. They paid triple the penalty fee."

"He forced through a buyout of the entire time slot. He said you weren't feeling well and had voluntarily withdrawn."

A chill sank through my entire body.

I hailed a cab and went straight to the Stephens Group headquarters.

"Simon, what gives you the right to cross that line? What gives you the right to pull my exhibition?" I was shaking from head to toe.

Simon was sitting behind his desk. When he saw me come in, he poured a glass of warm water and held it out.

"Iris, have some water. Calm down. I'm just borrowing the venue for Anna to hold a small show."

"Be good. Next month, I'll book you the best space downtown for a whole month to make up for it. How's that sound?"

Crash. I knocked the glass out of his hand.

At that moment, Anna stepped out from behind the door, eyes rimmed red.

Anna stood there clutching the transfer contract for the exhibition, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Simon, this is all my fault. I had no idea Iris minded so much."

"I don't want this exhibition anymore. Please don't fight because of me. I'll tear up the contract right now..."

Simon's gaze sharpened, and he pulled her into his arms. "Anna, stop. This has nothing to do with you."

Then he turned, and his face went cold.

"Iris, you're being completely unreasonable."

"Anna is sick. Do you really have to be this aggressive? Will you not rest until you've driven her to her death?"

I stared at the man and woman locked in each other's arms, and suddenly, five years of devotion felt like nothing more than a joke.

"Fine. I won't pressure you."

I let out a bitter laugh, pulled the gallery's backup drafts and reference materials from my bag, and tore them to shreds right in front of them.

"Simon, the exhibition is yours. I don't want it anymore."

The moment I turned to leave, my phone buzzed.

It was Dr. Theodore Finch from the private hospital.

"Mrs. Stephens, the rush results from yesterday's prenatal panel just came in."

"Your progesterone levels have plummeted. You're at extremely high risk for a threatened miscarriage."

"You need to get to the hospital immediately to stabilize the pregnancy. Absolutely no emotional stress."

As I listened, a wrenching cramp tore through my lower abdomen, as if something inside me was falling.

The pain doubled me over. Through blurred vision, I caught the notification glowing at the top of my phone screen, a reminder I'd set myself:

Countdown to leaving the Stephens family: less than 24 hours.

Icy wind laced with rain lashed against my face.

So this marriage, already riddled with wounds, wouldn't even grant me the dignity of walking out on my own terms in these final twenty-four hours.

I braced myself against the glass facade of the building, my legs buckling beneath me.

At some point, the sky had opened into a downpour. The cold seeped straight into my bones.

Sweat soaked through the back of my clothes while the cramping in my abdomen ground on without mercy.

The pain drove me to my knees on the curb. I dialed Simon's number.

It rang for a long time before he finally picked up.

"Simon, my stomach hurts so bad. I think I'm bleeding. It's pouring outside and I can't get a cab."

"Can you come get me..." My voice cracked.

His tone shifted instantly, urgent and concerned.

"Iris? Don't be scared. I'm nearby. I'm turning around right now. Stay where you are. Ten minutes, I promise."

I pressed my hand against my stomach and clenched my teeth.

Five minutes. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes.

My vision was already swimming when, at last, through the curtain of rain, I spotted Simon's black Maybach.

I forced myself upright and tried to wave, but in the next second, the car veered in the opposite direction at the intersection less than fifty yards from where I stood, and sped away.

"Simon!" I screamed, the sound ripped from pure despair.

Seconds later, my phone chimed. A voice message from Simon.

His words tumbled out, laced with panic:

"Iris, I'm sorry. Anna went to the estate to pick something up and got trapped in the elevator."

"Her claustrophobia is acting up. She could die."

"You just have a little stomachache. Be good, okay? Take a cab to the ER yourself."

"I'll come find you as soon as I've got Anna settled."

In the background of the message, I could hear Anna sobbing.

I stood in the downpour, feeling the slow, warm trickle sliding down my inner thigh.

I hurled my phone against the pavement.

I don't know how long I stood there before a stranger's car pulled over. They carried me, barely conscious, to the emergency room.

"Move! The patient is hemorrhaging. Threatened miscarriage. Get an OR prepped now!" a nurse shouted.

"Where's the family? We need a family member to handle the paperwork!"

I clung to my last shred of consciousness and told the nurse, "Use my phone. Run the joint card."

The nurse hurried back moments later, her face stricken with panic.

"Ms. Young, your joint account is completely empty! It shows a massive transfer cleared it out just half an hour ago!"

I froze.

Seconds later, a text from a real estate agent lit up my screen:

Mr. Stephens, the full payment for the penthouse security suite purchased for Ms. Anna Henson in the city center has been processed. Wishing Ms. Henson a pleasant move-in.

So he hadn't just drained my gallery funding. He'd emptied our entire joint account to buy her an apartment outright.

Simon Stephens, you heartless bastard.

"I still have money..." I used the last of my hidden prenuptial trust fund, the one I'd kept concealed throughout our marriage, and signed my name on the consent form for the emergency procedure to save my baby.

I lay in the hospital bed, scrolling through my phone.

Anna's social media had been updated ten minutes ago.

In the photo, Simon was carrying her out of an elevator. The caption read:

Even in the darkest elevator, my knight wouldn't hesitate to drop everything and chase away my fears.

I stared at the screen, at the profile of his face tight with worry as he shielded her. Not a single tear came. I had none left.

I closed the page calmly and dialed the number of the divorce attorney famous in the industry for making cheating husbands leave with nothing.

"Attorney Dickerson, it's me. Iris Young."

"I want a divorce. I want Simon Stephens ruined. Destroyed. Left with nothing."