The Wife He Used as a Shield

I faked being an heiress fresh from a prestigious European school, spinning an elaborate con to marry Victor Alcott, heir to one of New York's great oldmoney families.

I thought that if I was careful enough, I could con him into loving me for the rest of his life. Until I overheard his buddy say, "You've had a vasectomy.

So why do you let your mother make Natalie kneel in the snow for not getting pregnant?" Something pained flickered in Victor's eyes. "I promised my sisterinlaw her son would be the only heir the Alcotts ever had." His buddy sneered. "You're still hung up on Willow?" "Poor Natalie would never guess.

Right from the start, you told the whole Alcott family she was a con artist." Chapter 1 Inside the private room, Victor ran his thumb over his glass and said nothing for a moment. "Willow's background is too humble.

All I could do was find a con artist and insist she was the only woman I'd marry.

Then my mother would turn all her fury on Natalie." His buddy took a sip of his drink. "Vic, seriously.

Sure, Natalie used a fake identity to get close to you, but the way she looks at you—she's absolutely in love with you." Victor's brow creased, so slightly it was almost invisible. "Everything I've done has been to secure Willow's place, and the kid's." "As for Natalie… we each get what we want." His buddy gave a knowing grin. "If you can't let Willow go, just divorce Natalie and marry her!

Your brother's dead anyway!" "I've never once thought about divorcing Natalie," Victor blurted out. "I plan to send Willow and Ezra abroad.

When Ezra comes of age, he'll take over the Alcott family." "Jeez.

Anyone who didn't know better would think Ezra was your own kid!" Victor took a sip of his drink and said flatly, "I'll never have children of my own.

Willow's son is as good as my own." The room erupted in whoops. I stood frozen outside the private room. No wonder.

Every time we went back to the family estate, the entire Alcott household, right down to the staff, treated me like I was invisible.

Only my motherinlaw ever looked me over, and she only ever asked one question: "Are you pregnant yet?" No.

So in the dead of winter, you could always find me kneeling in the snow on her orders—I was too afraid of losing Victor to say no.

Every time, Victor would race back to the estate to rescue me, fumbling to rub warmth into my frozen fingertips.

And I would smile and nuzzle his chin. "I'm not cold, really." So everyone had known all along that I was a con artist. I looked down at the ultrasound printout in my hand.

My fingertip brushed lightly over the tiny dark spot on it. Then I slowly crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the trash. I wanted a divorce.

When I booked the abortion, the doctor kept doublechecking with me. Because of a medical condition I had. If I ended this pregnancy, I might never be able to become a mother.

I opened my mouth, but something seemed to be lodged in my throat. Nobody had ever wanted me, not since I was little.

When my parents divorced, my mom took my sister, the one who knew how to be sweet, and my dad took my brother, who could carry on the family name.

Only Grandma held me in her arms and called me her treasure. But later, Grandma was gone too. I became a weed in an open field that no one ever noticed. Until Victor came along.

He was the first person who ever saw me in a crowd. All those moments when he'd chosen me without hesitation made me secretly hope that once we were married, we could have a baby.

A little life with both of our blood running through it.

Chapter 2 I wanted to give this baby all the love Grandma had given me, along with the love Victor had given me, holding nothing back. It wasn't until tonight that I understood.

He didn't love me. He was only using me. I clutched the hem of my top and was about to speak. But my phone buzzed in my pocket, and the screen lit up.

It was Victor's sisterinlaw— Willow. "Natalie, let's meet." At the coffee shop, Willow sat across from me, stirring her coffee. "Did you tell Victor to send Ezra and me abroad?" "No." She gave a soft laugh and slid a check, pinched between two fingers, to the middle of the table. "Divorce Victor." "Five million dollars.

That's enough for a con artist like you to live it up for the rest of your life." I pushed the check back.

Willow raised an eyebrow. "Not enough?" "I don't want money." "Then what do you want?" She finally looked me in the eye. "To fight me for Victor?" "Do you know how Victor used to chase me?

In college, just to buy me a bowl of hot soup, he'd stand in line for two hours in belowfreezing weather and carry it to me tucked inside his coat.

On my birthday I said I liked ginkgo trees, and the next day he'd planted a whole street of them outside my house." "Too bad I picked his brother in the end." "After all… I liked being the eldest Alcott son's wife more." She smiled lightly, a glint of relish spreading through her eyes. "On my wedding day, I heard he stood outside the venue the whole night.

He went home and got so sick he wasted away to nothing." "Now that his brother's gone, we're just setting things right." My knuckles went pale around the handle of my cup.

The smile at the corners of Willow's mouth deepened. "Since you won't give up, why don't we make a bet?" She took out her phone. "Right now, we both call Victor at the same time." "I'll say the little dog he and I used to have isn't feeling well." "And you say you've got a 104degree fever." "If he comes to me, you divorce him right away." "If he comes to you, I'll take Ezra abroad tomorrow." Willow's eyes were certain, challenging. "Do you have the nerve?" A thousand emotions flashed through me.

Watching her smile like she'd already won, a resolve laced with pain surged up inside me. "Fine.

I'll take that bet." Willow gestured for me to go first. "If I call first, Victor will pick up and come straight over, and then I'm afraid… he won't have time to answer yours." My fingertips cold, I dialed Victor's number.

It rang for a long time before someone picked up. "Ms. Marsh?" "Mr. Alcott is in a meeting. Is there something I can help you with?" It was Zamora.

My throat tightened. "I think I've got a fever. My head's spinning. Could you get Victor to…" There was a pause on the other end.

Thirty seconds later: "Alcott Group is signing the final agreement on a crossborder acquisition today. Mr.

Alcott really can't step away." Zamora's tone was polite but distant. "I'll arrange a car to take you to the hospital right now." The dial tone droned in my ear.

I gripped the hot phone, my knuckles white. Willow unlocked her phone at a leisurely pace, a trace of mockery in her eyes.

She softened her voice. "Victor, Coal doesn't seem to be feeling well." "Where are you?" Victor's voice came through the speaker, calm and decisive. "Zamora, cancel the rest of my schedule." Willow glanced at me, her tone considerate and generous. "If you've got something else important, you could just have your assistant…" He cut her off, crisp and clean.

Chapter 3 "There's nothing else." My chest gave a violent lurch, and the pain drained the color from my face.

Willow looked at me, the corners of her mouth curving. "How about I raise the stakes for you?" "No need to thank me!" As she spoke, she actually took my phone and typed fast.

I wanted to stop her, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't lift my hand. [Victor, I was just in a car accident. It hurts so bad.] The message showed as delivered.

Every second that followed stretched out endlessly. I stared at the screen like it was my last lifeline, my fingertips digging into my palm. Five minutes. Ten minutes.

The screen stayed dark, like a stone sinking to the bottom of the sea, without so much as an echo.

Willow held out the check again. "You lost." I stared blankly at the check, then suddenly let out a low laugh. I laughed until the tears came.

I'd thought I was such a skilled con artist. Really, I was a complete and utter fool. "You're right.

I lost." "I don't want the money." "I'll have the divorce agreement signed tonight." As I walked out of the coffee shop, my phone suddenly rang. It was Victor.

I looked at the name flashing on the screen, and for the first time, my heart didn't race. Decline. Block. One smooth motion. Then I opened my email.

The pinned email had come in just that morning: an acceptance letter from the Slade School of Fine Art.

The professor who'd championed me wrote that my drawings were full of spirit and that he looked forward to my arrival.

Even more dramatic— Just two hours after that email, I'd found out I was pregnant.

It was only because I was at a total loss that I'd taken the ultrasound printout to the club to find Victor. Without thinking, I touched my stomach.

Finally, I calmly replied: [I'll be there in seven days, as scheduled.] Two a.m. At the front gate, a Maybach's engine cut off. "I had Zamora pick you up this afternoon.

Why weren't you there? And your phone wouldn't go through." His hand went to my forehead as naturally as ever. "Did your fever break?" I turned aside to dodge it.

Victor's hand hung in midair. He froze for a moment. "Are you mad?" His voice was low. "There really was a major acquisition this afternoon…" I lowered my eyes and said nothing.

He rubbed between his brows, his tone easing. "Natalie, I didn't think it through." "Whatever you want to make up for it, just name it." I took the opening and slid the document on the coffee table over to him. "I've got my eye on a house.

I need your signature." Victor casually took it and was about to flip it open when his phone rang. It was Willow. I didn't know what she said on the other end, but his brow creased.

He hung up in a hurry and, without so much as a glance, flipped to the last page and signed his name. "From now on, if you like something, just buy it.

You don't need to ask me." He picked up his car keys and turned. "Natalie, what's mine is yours.

You can make the call on anything the Alcotts have." Before the words had even faded, the front door shut behind him.

I looked down at the signed divorce agreement, my nails silently digging into my palm. Victor. From now on, may our paths never cross again.

You and I… are nothing to each other anymore. Early the next morning, I had my lawyer file the divorce papers.

I put Victor's copy of the divorce papers into a gift box I'd prepared ahead of time and tied the ribbon.

As soon as I got home, I found Victor sitting on the couch with Willow and her son. "They're staying here for now." His tone was flat, like he was mentioning some routine business matter.

I nodded. "Okay." It was Victor who frowned. "You're not going to ask why?" Chapter 4 "It doesn't matter anymore." He stared at me, a barely perceptible tension in his voice. "What do you mean it doesn't matter?" I didn't answer.

I just handed him the velvet box. "What's this?" "It's for you." Victor's hands paused as he went to open the box, as though something had suddenly come to him, and a faint smile flickered in his eyes. "Our anniversary is in seven days." He closed the box, his tone softening. "I'll open it then." I watched him carefully set the box down on the side table, and the corners of my mouth gave a stiff tug. "Suit yourself." I went upstairs.

I started packing. The walkin closet still held the gowns Victor had given me, and in the jewelry box lay the pieces he'd brought back from business trips.

I didn't take a single one. I packed only the few plain clothes I'd bought myself. Last of all, I went to the safe in the study.

I pressed my fingerprint to the scanner, opened the door, and reached for the familiar spot. Empty. My heart skipped a beat. I turned the whole safe upside down. Nothing.

The only photo of Grandma and me was gone. I ran out of the study. In the living room, Willow was holding a cup of black tea, smiling as she watched her son.

Ezra had a marker in his hand and was writing something with great concentration. I walked over, and the blood rushed straight to my head. The photo.

My face had been blacked out completely. And across Grandma's kind, smiling face, someone had written the words—old whore.

I grabbed Ezra by the throat, nearly hysterical. "Who told you to write that