She Was Never Just the Wife novel Chapter 2

Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers

Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein’s name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark.

Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth.

She didn’t answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too.

When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent.

“So you finally answered?” Aiyana sounded openly smug. “Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister’s back, and she even brought a kid with her.

“So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?”

Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror.

“What, not talking now?” Aiyana sneered. “Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute.

“Now that the real one’s back, a fake like you should really—”

“Done?” Celia cut in quietly. Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold.

Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, “You…”

“Aiyana,” Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. “Beckham’s been good to you these past three years, hasn’t he?”

Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. “Of course. Beckham’s always—”

“He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten,” Celia said slowly.

Something in Celia’s tone put Aiyana on guard at once. “What are you getting at?” she demanded.

“Nothing much.” Celia gave a soft laugh. “I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn’t me. It’s you.”

“What are you even talking about?” Aiyana snapped.

“You think I’m talking nonsense?” Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. “Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years?

“Was it because of you, or because you’re Laylah’s sister?”

Aiyana’s breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. “Shut up.”

“For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah.”

“He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she’s back, what place do you think you still have?” Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word.

“Celia Ross!” Aiyana shrieked. “Like you’re any better? You’re nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—”

“At least I’m still Mrs. Lucero,” Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. “I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you?

“You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream’s over, and your precious Beckham probably won’t even remember your name.”

Aiyana ground the word out. “You…”

“If I were you, I’d be worrying about my own situation right now,” Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below.

“Instead of calling someone you’ll never measure up to just to show off.”

She hung up before Aiyana could answer. The phone stayed quiet for a few seconds, then started buzzing nonstop.

Celia didn’t even look at it. She muted it, tossed it onto the vanity, and walked to the closet to get her pajamas.

When her fingers brushed the fabric, Celia finally realized the wound on her hand was still throbbing.

Her gaze dropped to the dried blood on her fingertip, and it pulled her straight back to her wedding night three years ago.

That night, Beckham came back drunk, half carried into the room by his assistant.

Celia sat on the edge of the bed in a red nightgown, watching him collapse onto the mattress, when she heard him mumble Laylah’s name under his breath.

She had frozen on the spot, her fingers tightening around the bedsheet before she even realized it. Her nails dug into her palm with the same sharp pain she felt now.

Later, Beckham woke up and saw her sitting by the bed. For one brief second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes before the cold returned.

“What are you doing here?” he had asked.

“This is our bedroom,” she had said softly.

Beckham frowned, said nothing, and went straight into the bathroom. After that night, he moved into the guest room.

For three years, Celia had waited for him to finally see her for who she was, to understand that she had never been anyone’s substitute, only herself.

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