The Substitute Wife's Spectacular Comeback

The blade slipped.

One second Chloe Caldwell was tracing the grain of the balsa wood, the next the X-Acto knife skidded across the surface and sliced into her left palm. The pain didn't register immediately. It was a clean, sharp bite, followed by a hot rush that soaked into the white architectural model she had spent the last six hours building.

"Damn it," she hissed, dropping the knife. It clattered against the drafting table.

Blood welled up instantly, a thick, dark red that dripped onto the floorboards of her Manhattan studio. She grabbed the hem of her oversized flannel shirt and pressed it hard against the wound. The white cotton bloomed with color. Her hands were shaking. These were her tools. Her livelihood. If the tendon was cut...

She fumbled for her phone with her good hand, her thumb hitting the contact name without thinking. Bentley. It was instinct. Three years of marriage had wired her to reach for him when things fell apart.

The line rang. And rang. Static crackled in the background before the call connected.

"Chloe?" Bentley Morrow's voice was low, smooth, but held a slight echo, like he was in a large, empty room. "What's wrong?"

"I cut myself," she said, her voice thinner than she wanted it to be. She watched a drop of blood fall from her shirt to the wood. "Badly. With my knife."

"Where?" His tone sharpened, shifting into the CEO mode she knew so well.

"My hand. The studio."

"Listen to me," he said. She heard the faint clink of glass in the background. "I'm in Chicago. The merger dinner just ended. I can't be there, but I'm sending Alex right now. Don't move. Don't touch it."

Chicago. Right. She squeezed her eyes shut, the sting of tears mixing with the throb in her hand. "It's fine. I'll just drive-"

"No." The word was final. "Alex is in the city and will be there shortly. Stay put."

The line went dead. Chloe slid down the side of her drafting table until she hit the cold floor. She pressed her knee against her wounded hand, applying pressure, watching the red seep through the gaps in her fingers. The silence of the studio felt heavier now.

Exactly ten minutes later, the studio door pushed open. Alex Vance stood there in his tailored black overcoat, expression blank. "Mrs. Morrow. Let's go."

The ride to NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital was a blur of red lights and rain-streaked windows. Alex didn't speak. He just drove, the partition raised between them. When they arrived, he escorted her past the triage line, the Morrow name opening doors that would have stayed shut for anyone else.

Eleanor Sutton, a nurse with brisk hands and kind eyes, met them in a private exam room.

"Let me see," Eleanor said, gently unwrapping the makeshift bandage. She winced sympathetically. "Deep, but clean. You're lucky. A millimeter to the right and you'd be looking at nerve damage."

Chloe watched as the needle pierced her skin,