After My Husband Saved His Mistress, I Faked My Death

I smoothed down the front of my dress for the fifth time, checking my reflection in the hallway mirror. One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days of marriage to a man who still felt like a stranger in our bed.

The dining room glowed with candlelight, casting shadows across the intimate table I'd spent hours preparing. Jasper's favorite wine breathed in crystal glasses, and the beef Wellington sat perfectly golden on fine china—his favorite, not mine. Nothing about this marriage had been about what I wanted.

"Mrs. Spencer?" Our housekeeper appeared in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral. "The dinner will get cold."

"He'll be here," I said, more to convince myself than her. "He promised."

At eight-thirty, the front door finally opened. I straightened, forcing a smile as Jasper's heavy footsteps echoed through the foyer. He looked tired, his tie loosened, hair slightly disheveled. But it was the scent that hit me first—vanilla and jasmine, not his usual sandalwood cologne.

"You're late," I said softly, rising to meet him.

His eyes darted to the dining room setup, then back to me. "I told you I had work."

"It's our anniversary, Jasper." My voice cracked slightly. "I thought maybe tonight could be different."

He stepped back when I reached for him, his jaw tightening. "I'm not hungry."

"I made your favorite." I gestured to the table. "Just sit with me for a few minutes?"

Something flickered in his eyes—guilt? Regret? But it vanished so quickly I might have imagined it.

"I can't do this, Raven." His voice was flat, professional. The same tone he used with suspects. "This isn't real."

"What isn't real?" I whispered.

"Us." He gestured between us. "You and me. This..." He waved at the dining room. "It's not real."

The candles flickered as if mocking me. "I thought we were trying."

"No." He shook his head. "We're pretending. And I'm tired of pretending."

I swallowed hard, fighting back tears. "Is this about Emily again?"

His silence was answer enough.

"She called tonight," he finally admitted. "She had another nightmare about her father."

"And you went running." It wasn't a question.

"She needed someone."

"And I don't?" The words escaped before I could stop them.

Jasper's expression hardened. "This isn't about need. It's about reality. I'm a cop, Raven. A blue-collar detective from Brooklyn. You're..." He gestured at me, at the room. "You're a Spencer. This was never going to work."

"We could make it work," I insisted, hating how desperate I sounded.

"No." He stepped around me. "We couldn't."

I watched him walk away, his shoulders rigid beneath his suit jacket. The couch springs creaked as he settled in the living room, claiming his usual spot—as far from me as possible.

---

The phone rang at 3:17 AM. I fumbled for it in the darkness, my heart already racing.

"Miss Spencer?" An unfamiliar voice. "This is Mount Sinai Hospital. Your grandfather has been in a serious accident."

The world tilted sideways. "Is he...?"

"I'm sorry. He