From Substitute Wife to the Don’s Queen Chapter 07
The surveillance footage played frame by frame across the screen.
In the dungeon corridor, Beatrice stood outside the iron door, makeup flawless, her expression nothing like the virtuous act she’d worn at the wedding. She
leaned down, voice low and venomous through the bars: “You’ll never deserve a good life. You belong under my heel, dying here, not worth remembering.”
No sound came from inside. Rowan frowned,
scrubbing through the footage.
The scene jumped. Beatrice spoke to a guard, fingers pressing cash into his palm. He hesitated, then pock- eted it. The iron door opened. Cut to the dungeon exit
-Beatrice already waited at the top of the stairs, ex- pression switched back to its usual gentleness, waiting for Gemma to climb up, waiting for the trap she’d set.
Rowan’s knuckles slowly curled.
The video continued. Beatrice fell down the steps in
front of everyone, clutching her stomach, crying out “my baby“-tears precise, perfectly timed. The camera angle shifted, but caught the brief smile that flickered across her face.
Then, afterward, in the dungeon. Beatrice crouched by the iron door, speaking to the dying Gemma with something close to pleasure: “That child was a nuisance anyway. Better dealt with early–you did me a favor. Honestly, it wasn’t even Rowan’s. Would’ve been real trouble if that came out later.”
The subtitles paused there for two full seconds.
Rowan’s eyes widened.
Then his fist slammed into the steering wheel, harder than before. The car shook. “Bitch.” The word ground out from deep in his throat, flat and cold–more terrifying than any shout.
The final scene cut to the wedding. Under everyone’s gaze, he stood beside Beatrice as fireworks burst overhead, rose petals falling like rain–then Lachlan carrying Gemma across the lawn. Her head turned slightly, glancing in his direction.
Rowan instinctively zoomed in, trying to see what lay in those eyes.
He expected hate. Or despair. Or even a trace of longing.
But her face held nothing. Not numbness—true, complete calm. Like a door locked from the inside, no longer waiting for anyone to knock.
“Impossible.” His voice cracked. “It can’t be like this.”
He shattered the screen with one blow, shards scattering across the seat.
“Get the cars ready.” He yanked open the door, voice heavy enough to crush the air around him. “Rhodes estate.” His men scattered. Rowan ground his teeth. “Lachlan Rhodes. Arrogant bastard dares to touch my woman.”
Before he could move, Beatrice appeared in the corridor.
She approached slowly, eyes reddened, as if gathering courage. “Rowan, what happened at the wedding… I was wrong. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.” She stopped before him, voice carefully tinged with hurt. “But Gemma leaving today–it must be jealousy again. She’s always like this, playing games at the worst moments-” Tears slid silently down her cheeks. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have excluded her from the wedding…”
She never finished.
Cold steel pressed against her forehead.
Beatrice froze, tears still wet on her face.
Rowan’s finger rested on the trigger, eyes calm as stagnant water. “You’re not my wife.”
“What are you-”
“Take her down.” He gestured to the guards. “The dungeon.”
Beatrice lunged forward screaming, caught and pinned by two guards. Her wedding dress dragged across the stones in a trail of white wreckage. “You have no right! You just married me—you have no right!”
Emmett and Josephine rushed over, freezing at the scene. Josephine’s voice trembled. “Rowan, what are you doing? Gemma’s the one who ran–she’s the one you should punish-” Two gunshots.
Bullets struck the stone, spraying debris, leaving black holes at their feet. Both collapsed to their knees, legs like jelly.
Rowan slowly turned the barrel, gaze sweeping
across three faces, voice taking root. “Gemma was the replacement bride. You arranged that. Beatrice’s child wasn’t mine.” He paused. “And through all of it, you played me for a fool.”
He tilted his head. “Take them all.”
Guards swarmed. Cries and screams mixed together, swallowed by the night. Rowan watched without satisfaction, only a heaviness he couldn’t name–he’d always prided himself on reading people, yet in this he’d been fooled completely, for three years straight. Silas approached with a file. “Investigation results.” Rowan took it, flipping through. With each page, his brow furrowed deeper–Beatrice had cycled through creditors for years, maintaining appearances by sleeping her way through contacts, carrying on simultaneous affairs with two married businessmen. One was the father of that child. He reached the last page, crushed the file into a ball, and tore it apart. Paper scraps drifted through the car.
Silas didn’t move. After a pause: “Godfather, there’s one more thing.”
“What.”
“About your wife.” Silas chose his words carefully.
“She’s… pregnant…”
“What?!” Rowan’s eyes went wide. “When? Why wasn’t I told?”
“She insisted on secrecy. The family doctor said she explicitly ordered him not to inform you.”
Rowan’s chest felt like someone was squeezing it. He had to bring her back.