Page 47 of Her Possessive Dominant Fake Husband

There was a time when those words had the power to shame me. Now they just felt like an invasion. I shrugged, trying for nonchalance, trying to convince both of us. “She wanted to leave. I let her.”

Her eyes narrowed, sharp and knowing. She wasn’t buying it. “She’s hurt,” she said, stating the obvious, the same way she might comment on the weather or the decor. “I could see it on her face.”

That stung more than it should have. “She’s fine,” I said, but it was a lie, and we both knew it.

We stood in silence for a moment. My mother crossed her arms, watching me with an intensity that felt almost surgical.

“She didn’t look fine,” she said. “She looked like you’ve done something dreadful.”

I exhaled slowly, feeling the pressure of her expectation. “I didn’t do anything,” I said, trying to maintain my defenses. But the silence in the room, the way Claire had looked at me—all of it conspired against me.

She raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you?”

I turned away, needing distance, needing to not see the accusation in her eyes. “She wanted out.” She wasn’t going to get anything else out of me.

My mother didn’t let up. “Did you even try to stop her?”

That hit hard. Too hard. Like a punch to the gut that left me seeing stars. I couldn’t answer. Not without giving away more than I could afford to.

She sighed, the sound both exasperated and pitying. “Alexander, if you don’t—”

“What do you expect me to do?” I asked, sharper than intended. She could pretend she had all the answers. I’d listen.

“Whatever it takes to fix this,” she said, the words striking like an ultimatum.

Fix it. If only she knew. If only I knew how. But before I could respond, before I could defend myself or confess or whatever the hell it was I was trying to do, the doorbell chimed, and my head snapped up.

Claire.

She’d come back. Had she forgotten something?

My mother smiled, warm and relieved, as if she had schemed this entire thing. “Claire, darling,” she said, crossing the room in a graceful stride, arms open.

Claire hesitated, trying to read the situation. But she accepted the hug, squeezing her eyes closed like she was trying to keep tears away. That ached, knowing she was in so much pain and I couldn’t help her. Not without making things worse.

When they parted, she took Claire’s hand, her expression softening in a way that twisted something in me. “I was just telling Alexander we’d like to help you.”

I felt like I’d been punched.

She ignored me, her focus entirely on Claire. “Alexander’s father and I. We want to do whatever we can. Besides, there might be a bun in that oven.” Though she reached, shestopped short of patting Claire’s belly. Claire went red, clearly embarrassed, for all of the reasons.

For a moment, I thought she might actually accept their help. And I was ready to be furious and call her on her double standard. We both knew there was no baby. But then the familiar defiance flashed across her features, and I knew. I knew she wouldn’t make it easy.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice small but determined. “But I can’t. I really can’t.”

My mother held her gaze, undeterred. “We’d like to help financially, if you’ll let us. We can’t have a grandchild of ours taking you into poverty.”

The words hit like a hammer. I felt myself tensing, worried about how Claire would respond to what probably felt like a slap across the face.

Claire looked away.

I braced myself, waiting for her to spill it all, to tell my mother everything, to ruin me as completely as she had the power to – as I deserved her to.

But she didn’t.

“No, thank you. But it’s very kind of you to offer,” she said, finally. Her tone was guarded but genuine.

I stared at her, disbelief mixing with a grudging admiration. She could have exposed me, could have destroyed everything. But instead, she let me keep my damn secrets.

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