His Last Command Came Back to Kill Him novel Chapter 9

Whitley's heart plummeted into her stomach.

The realization hit her like a physical blow. The only reason they had even crossed paths that fateful night was because she had been drugged, and he had been blackout drunk—mistaking her for Yelena, since they shared a passing resemblance in their features and build.

For three years, she hadn't been a wife. She had been a stand-in. A convenient, disposable shadow.

A chilling, self-deprecating smile curved her lips. Her eyes went completely dead.

Clive stared down at her, his expression utterly unreadable, a fathomless abyss. He offered a singular, flat explanation for his sudden advance: "Bonnie wants us to have a child."

He said it like a chore. An obligation he was forced to fulfill.

A child?

Tears pricked the back of Whitley's eyes, fueled by a toxic mix of humiliation and grief.

They could have had one.

He hadn't wanted it.

And now, she couldn't give him one even if she tried.

And he dared to demand one now?

Her voice was ice. "I will never have a child with you."

The temperature in the room plummeted. Clive's eyes turned lethal. He released her, pulling back as the air between them turned into a freezing vacuum.

"Then who exactly do you plan on having one with?" he demanded softly.

Whitley scoffed, turning her face away.

No one.

But she had absolutely zero obligation to explain her destroyed body to him.

"Clive, we are getting a—"

The word *divorce* barely reached her lips before a shrill ringtone shattered the tension.

The screen lit up on the nightstand. It was Yelena.

Clive's jaw tightened. He didn't immediately reach for it.

"Alright. I'll go with you."

The words detonated in Whitley's brain.

She remembered all the times she had begged him to attend her industry galas. He had always brushed her off—too busy, too tied up with government affairs, entirely unavailable. He had never once said yes to her.

It was hilarious. Truly, it was hysterical.

A cold, desolate smile spread across Whitley's face. The version of herself that had begged and pleaded for his attention seemed so pathetic now.

Taking a deep breath, she threw the covers off, bypassed him entirely, and walked out the door.

She wasn't going to sit here and wait to be slaughtered. She refused to lose her marriage and her company in the same breath.

She had to prepare for war.

Clive watched her slight figure disappear into the hallway, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

Whitley didn't return to the guest bed. She locked herself in the study, burying herself in research files, her fingers flying over data sheets until the first light of dawn broke through the window.