Hidden Scientist, Betrayed Wife's Revenge

Gavin

Modern | Completed

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For three years, I hid my identity as a top scientist and heiress, pretending to be a simple graduate student. All to secretly develop a cure for my husband Graham's fatal genetic disease. Then, in his sleep, he whispered another woman's name-Keeley. I soon discovered she was his ex-girlfriend and, horrifyingly, my doppelgänger. He brought her into our home, siding with her as she attacked me, causing a fall that made me lose our unborn child. He showed no remorse. Instead, he publicly humiliated me, accused me of faking the pregnancy, and filed for an annulment to marry her. The man I sacrificed my career, my fortune, and my identity for saw me as nothing more than a convenient substitute. He destroyed my life, all for a cheap copy of me. He thought he had broken me. But he forgot who I really am. Now, as the true head of the Morton Institute, I'm ready to reclaim my name. At the global press conference for his cure, I will expose every last one of their lies.

Betrayal Divorce Hidden identities Substitute wife Divorce

Chapter 21

12-22 14:34

Chapter 1

For three years, I hid my identity as a top scientist and heiress, pretending to be a simple graduate student. All to secretly develop a cure for my husband Graham's fatal genetic disease.

Then, in his sleep, he whispered another woman's name-Keeley.

I soon discovered she was his ex-girlfriend and, horrifyingly, my doppelgänger.

He brought her into our home, siding with her as she attacked me, causing a fall that made me lose our unborn child. He showed no remorse.

Instead, he publicly humiliated me, accused me of faking the pregnancy, and filed for an annulment to marry her.

The man I sacrificed my career, my fortune, and my identity for saw me as nothing more than a convenient substitute. He destroyed my life, all for a cheap copy of me.

He thought he had broken me. But he forgot who I really am. Now, as the true head of the Morton Institute, I'm ready to reclaim my name. At the global press conference for his cure, I will expose every last one of their lies.

Chapter 1

My stomach churned, a cold, hard knot spreading through my core as his hands, once a source of comfort, now felt like a cage. Every touch was a fresh stab of betrayal, a horrifying reminder of the name he'd whispered in his sleep, a name that wasn't mine.

"Babe," Graham murmured, his voice a low rumble against my ear, pulling me closer. "You're so tense tonight. What's wrong?"

I flinched, my body stiffening. The question felt like an accusation, a veiled demand for performance. My breath hitched. How could he not know? How could he pretend?

"Nothing," I managed, the word a brittle whisper. I tried to shift away, but his grip tightened.

"Come on, Elise," he coaxed, his fingers tracing a path down my spine. His voice held that familiar seductive edge, the one that used to make my knees weak. Now it just grated on my nerves. "Let's lighten up. We could order some champagne, put on some music."

He leaned in, his lips brushing my neck. I recoiled, a silent scream building in my chest. The intimacy felt wrong, tainted. It was a performance, and I was no longer willing to play my part. My muscles screamed in protest, a warning, a desperate plea to escape. I needed air, space, anything to pull away from the suffocating lie that was our marriage.

I closed my eyes, trying to block out the sensation, to detach. But the memory was too vivid, too fresh. Just last week, in this very bed, in the dim light of dawn, he had stirred from a deep sleep, his arm still heavy around me. His voice, thick with dreams, had mumbled a name, a name that echoed in the quiet room like a gunshot.

"Keeley," he'd whispered.

Not my name. Never my name. He always called me "babe," or "honey," or sometimes, if he was feeling particularly affectionate, "my little scientist." Generic endearments, sweet enough, but utterly devoid of the specific, intimate recognition I craved. Now I knew why. I was a stand-in, a convenient placeholder.

The shock had been a physical blow, leaving me unable to breathe. My heart had hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. I' d lain there, perfectly still, listening to his even breathing, feeling the slow, agonizing crawl of ice through my veins. The illusion of our perfect life, carefully constructed over three years, had shattered into a million irreparable pieces.

He moved again, pressing closer. The heat of his body, once comforting, now repulsed me. My jaw ached from clenching it so tight. I couldn't do this. Not anymore. I needed to know the truth, even if it destroyed me. I needed proof.

Later, when Graham was engrossed in a late-night video call, his voice a low murmur from the study, I slipped out of bed. My bare feet barely made a sound on the cold marble floor. I moved like a ghost through the sprawling, silent house, my heart thumping a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

I retrieved my old, burner phone from its hiding place beneath a loose floorboard in the closet. It was a relic from my pre-Graham life, a tool I thought I' d never need again. My fingers trembled slightly as I dialed a number I knew by heart, a number I hadn' t touched in years.

I ducked into the master bathroom, locking the door and turning on the faucet to drown out my voice. The cool porcelain of the sink against my cheek offered a small measure of comfort. I pressed the phone to my ear, listening to the familiar ring.

"Corbett," I whispered when he answered, my voice raw with unshed tears. "It's Elise. I... I think Graham is cheating on me."

There was a beat of stunned silence on the other end. Corbett, my childhood protector, my rock, rarely lost his composure.

"Elise? Are you hurt?" His voice was sharp, immediate concern overriding any surprise. "Where are you? I'm coming to you right now."

"No, I'm not hurt," I rushed to reassure him, though my heart was twisting in my chest. "Not physically. But... I heard him. He called out a name."

"Whose name?" Corbett's voice was steely, dangerous.

"Keeley," I choked out, the name tasting like ash on my tongue. "Keeley Nguyen."

The name hung in the air between us, a heavy, suffocating weight. My hand flew to my mouth, trying to stifle a sob. The pain was still fresh, still burning. The shame, the humiliation, threatened to consume me. My body shook with the force of it.

"Keeley Nguyen," Corbett repeated, a low growl in his voice. "I'll make some calls. Give me an hour. Don't do anything, Elise. Don't confront him. Just... stay safe."

"I will." My voice was barely a whisper. I ended the call, my fingers numb.

Just as I stepped out of the bathroom, Graham rounded the corner from the study, his eyes wide as he enveloped me in a sudden, tight hug. My phone, forgotten in my hand, clattered to the floor.

"Babe! What are you doing up so late?" he asked, his tone laced with false concern. He picked up my phone, his brows furrowing. "And what's this? An old phone?"

Before I could answer, he pulled me back into our bedroom, his hands already unbuttoning my silk nightgown. "You're so cold, my love. Let me warm you up."

He pushed me onto the bed, his weight pressing me down. His lips found my neck, then trailed lower. I shut my eyes, a silent plea for detachment. Every fiber of my being screamed in protest. This wasn't love. This was a violation.

I tried to turn my head, instinctively resisting. He misinterpreted my struggle, a smirk playing on his lips. "Playing hard to get tonight, are we? I like it." His movements grew rougher, more insistent, his strength overwhelming mine. My breath hitched, a silent cry dying in my throat.

Then, a sudden, jarring sound from the nightstand. Graham' s expensive tablet, left open, blared to life. A news report.

"...returning to the U.S. after years of groundbreaking research abroad," a polished female voice announced from the tablet. "Dr. Keeley Nguyen, the prodigious scientist, is set to join the highly acclaimed Stanford research institute, bringing her innovative work on genetic neurodegenerative disorders to the forefront of medical science."

I froze, my blood chilling. Graham, too, paused, his head lifting slightly.

The reporter continued, "Dr. Nguyen, renowned for her accelerated academic career and revolutionary theories, stated in an exclusive interview yesterday that she is 'eager to contribute to the nation's scientific advancement and explore new collaborations.'"

A chill went down my spine, cold and sharp. I knew that research institute. I was its secret head.

Graham' s hands stilled completely. His breathing hitched. He pulled away from me, his eyes wide and fixed on the screen.

"Keeley," he breathed, the name a reverent whisper, laced with a longing that sliced through me worse than any physical pain.

At that exact moment, my hidden phone, which Graham had placed back on the nightstand, buzzed with a new message. My eyes darted to it.

`Corbett: Keeley Nguyen. Just confirmed. She' s his ex. The one from before you.`

My gaze flickered back to Graham's tablet. On the screen, a promotional image for Dr. Keeley Nguyen. Her face stared back, brilliant and composed, her eyes sparkling with ambition. And then, the horrifying realization.

It wasn't just the name. The woman on the screen, Keeley Nguyen, was my doppelgänger. A younger, slightly more polished version of myself. The same dark, intelligent eyes. The same sharp cheekbones. The same long, dark hair. I was the substitute. A cheap copy.

Tears pricked my eyes, hot and stinging, but I refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him. I just lay there, perfectly still, my body numb, my soul screaming. Graham, entirely oblivious, fell into a restless sleep beside me, his arm still draped over my waist, his scent a suffocating reminder of his betrayal.

My phone buzzed again, a new message from Corbett. I carefully reached for it, my fingers brushing against Graham's arm. He didn't stir.

`Me: I' m done. After I finish the project, we' re over.`

The project. The cure for his "Harvey's Syndrome," the fatal genetic disease that would claim him before he turned thirty. The cure I had secretly dedicated the past three years of my life to, sacrificing my own identity, my career, my fortune, pretending to be a simple graduate student to save the man I thought I loved. The man who saw me as nothing more than a convenient stand-in.

I remembered the day I met him, four years ago, at a charity gala I reluctantly attended on behalf of the Morton Foundation. He was charismatic, charming, everything my sheltered life hadn't prepared me for. He pursued me with a fervor that made my heart ache with a fragile hope. He told me I was different, special.

I remembered the fire, a year into our marriage. A small lab accident at the institute. He'd rushed in, a hero, pulling me from the smoke and flames, coughing and holding me tight. "I thought I lost you," he'd whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "I couldn't live without you, Elise."

His words now tasted like poison. All of it. The grand gestures, the whispered sweet nothings, the promises of forever. It was all a lie, a performance. He hadn't seen me. He'd seen a ghost, a proxy for his "one true love." And I, foolish and blinded by love, had walked willingly into his gilded cage.