The Scapegoat Wife's Ultimate Comeback

ted at me. My heart felt like a crumpled piece of paper, tossed aside. That night, I unlocked the digital vault of my husband's life, a place I rarely dared to venture. I pulled up

he formidable Hudson family for years. Elsworth Hudson, the patriarch, had apparently been desperate to separate them, to maintain the family's p

exposure, to force her grandfather's hand. He'd agreed to her return, but on strict conditions: she had to present a respectable façade, find

patient glance, every gentle touch from Conor was merely a performance, a carefully orchestrated act to pacify his grandfathe

n who craved acceptance, had been utterly and completely used. I was a prop in someone else'

the curb. The driver, a polite, burly man named Gus, started to ope

ned, not now. The thought of being trapped in a moving vehicle, even a luxurious one, sent a fre

ded. "As you wish, Mrs. Hudson. I'l

soothe the inferno raging inside me. I just needed to move, to outrun the suffocating truth. I wa

to stop, leaning heavily against a cold brick wall, gasping for breath. The

ed with concern. "Mrs. Hudson, you're hurt. Ple

ped out, his face still pale, but his eyes now held a familiar, distant concern for me. "J

dson insisted," Gus explai

examined my ankle. "It looks like a bad sprain. Why didn'

, my voice barely a whisper, thick wi

e with Gus." His tone was dismissive. He didn't even realize the depth of his

d of hope snapping inside me. "I want to be al

ey, please. Let me at least get you

eeth against the pain. "I want to walk." I hobbled forw

ly to her forehead. "Conor, darling, are you really going to leave me in the car alone? After wha

ng like morning dew. "Hillery, you should stay in the car.

towards me with a calculating glint. "And Jacey seems quite... emotional. Perhaps it' s best if I s

the damsel perfectly, a master manipulator. She knew exactly w

fixed ahead. My silenc

! I think I twisted it getting out of the car. It's just a tiny thin

are you alright? Why didn't you say something?" His voice was thick with worry, a st

nto him, her head resting lightly on his shoulder.

e was clear. His face hardened with resolve. "Gus,

onor! I'm scared! What if those people come back? I don't feel

n of a second. "Hillery, Jacey

o strong, she can take care of herself, can't she?" She looked at me, a triumphant sm

stance. A silent plea, a subtle apo

ce, was a burden to him, while her manufactured fragility was a siren

is arms, carrying her easily towards his car. She nestled against his chest, a picture of delicate

s head towards me. "Jacey, please call Gus if you need anything. I'll be

t. I stood there, alone, on the cold pavement, the ache in my ankle mirroring the ache in my heart. The black security car, Gus still ins

pulling his expensive cashmere scarf around her shoulders, a symbol of warmth, of protection, of possession. My heart twisted. That scarf,

re, on the marble countertop, was a first-aid kit, neatly placed. A note beside i

n a video call with Conor, her voice a fragile whisper. "Conor, darling, I'm so thirsty. Could y

u." Conor's voice, usually so clippe

an who would pamper and soothe, the man who would sacrifice anythi

weeks ago. My hand didn't tremble. My heart didn't ache. It was

"it's over." I stared at the phone, knowing he