Our Wedding Was Ruined and I Found a Husband 48

Chapter 48 

Jason’s POV 

Twenty minutes I’d been hunting for her. 

The afternoon session should’ve kicked off ten minutes ago, but Vanessa Harper? Gone. She had completely disappeared. 

Marcus tracked me down in the west corridor. “Common areas are clear. Her assistant mentioned making some calls, but she never returned.” 

My gut twisted. Something felt wrong. I couldn’t explain it. 

“Try the residential wing.” 

“Alpha, there’s no way she’d-” 

“Never mind, I’ll check it.” 

I let the strange nagging feeling I felt lead me there in a hurry, forcing me to take the back stairs two at a time. 

But something tugged at my instincts. A feeling I couldn’t shake. 

I punched in my code. The lock clicked open. 

The second I stepped inside, I understood why that feeling had led me here. 

Sitting on my bed with her shoulders hunched was Vanessa. 

In her hands, she held the photo of me and Laila from that summer fair. 

Tears streamed down her face. 

Ice flooded my veins. Then came the fire. 

“What are you doing?” 

She jumped to her feet. Guilt plastered across every feature. 

Those brown eyes went wide. Busted. 

“I–I needed the restroom.” 

“The restroom.” I closed the distance between us. “In the private residential wing. Behind a coded door.” 

“It was open already-” 

“Wrong.” I stood right in front of her now. “That door needs a four–digit code. Only five people in this entire pack know it.” 

Her throat worked hard. “Your mother provided it. She said I could store documents there during the meeting.” 

The lie rolled out smooth. Practiced. 

1 

“My mother doesn’t know my personal code. Want to try that again?” 

She lifted her chin despite being cornered. “I must’ve gotten it wrong then. Maybe someone else’s room-” 

“Stop lying.” My hand shot out, catching her wrist. “Who are you really?” 

“I’m Vanessa Harper. We’ve covered this-” 

“Vanessa Harper shouldn’t be able to waltz into my private room. Shouldn’t know the code I’ve used since I was sixteen. Shouldn’t be standing here with tears streaking your face while staring at photographs of strangers.” 

Her pulse hammered beneath my fingers. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Then explain this.” I gestured toward the shelf. “Explain why you’re crying over a bookmark made by a girl who died six years back.” 

She yanked against my grip. “Let go.” 

“Not until you tell me the truth.” 

“I already did. Your mother-” 

“My mother hasn’t entered my room in three years. Even if she had, she wouldn’t hand out my personal security code to some business associate.” I moved closer. “So, either you guessed a four–digit code on your first attempt―astronomically unlikely—or you knew it already.” 

Color drained from her face. 

“Only a handful of people ever had that code,” I pressed. Each word landed deliberately. “My parents. Marcus. My old nanny. And Laila.” 

She flinched. Tiny movement. Almost invisible. 

But I caught it anyway. 

“Interesting reaction,” I said quietly. “For someone who never met her.” 

“You’re being paranoid. I should return to the meeting-” 

“The meeting can wait.” My grip tightened slightly on her wrist–not painful, just inescapable. “Answer the question. How’d you get into my room?” 

Her jaw set hard. Stubborn. “I told you already.” 

“You lied.” 

“Believe whatever you want.” 

We locked eyes. Neither willing to break first. 

Part of me wanted to push until she shattered. Demand truth until her walls crumbled. 

But I recognized futility when I saw it. She’d constructed barriers six feet thick. I wouldn’t breach them today. 

 

“Fine.” I released her, stepped back. “But we’re not done here.” 

She brushed past me quickly, heading for the stairs. 

At the doorway though, she paused. Looked back at that shelf one final time. 

Something flickered across her expression. Pain, longing, loss–all three maybe. 

Then gone. 

And so was she. 

Laila’s POV 

My hands wouldn’t stop shaking when I returned to the conference room. 

Claire glanced up immediately. “You okay? You look pale.” 

“Fine. Just needed air.” 

The lie tasted like ash in my mouth. 

Jason caught me in his room. Watched me cry over his collection. Demanded answers I couldn’t possibly give. 

I’d barely escaped intact. 

The afternoon session dragged endlessly. Contract details, revenue projections, implementation of timelines. 

I forced focus. Participated. Acted normal. 

But Jason’s eyes burned into me constantly. Watching, calculating. 

Finally, mercifully, the meeting ended. 

“Thank you all for your time,” I said, professional smile locked firmly in place. “I’m looking forward to a successful partnership.” 

Jason stood. “Let me walk you out.” 

“That’s unnecessary-” 

“I insist.” 

Claire shot me a worried glance. I gave the tiniest head shake. This was unavoidable now. 

Jason walked beside me silently. Down the corridor, through the main hall, out to the parking area. 

My car waited right there. Freedom just twenty feet away. 

“Ms. Harper.” 

I stopped. Turned around. 

He studied my face for what felt like forever. “I will figure out who you really are.” 

 

“I’ve told you who I am.” 

“No. You’ve told me who you’re pretending to be.” He stepped closer. “But I’m patient. And thorough. Whatever you’re hiding, I’ll uncover it.” 

“There’s nothing to find.” 

“We’ll see about that.” 

I climbed into my car, waited for Claire to hurry in as well, before we drove away without looking back. 

But his gaze followed me–I felt it–until I disappeared completely from view. 

The drive home passed in a blur, my mind spinning endlessly. 

He knows. Or strongly suspects anyway. And I had no idea what to do with that. 

*** 

Back at the hospital, I checked on Ava. She sat coloring, happy and oblivious to the disaster I’d narrowly avoided. 

“Mama! How was work?” 

“Fine, baby. Just fine.” 

After she drifted off to sleep, I sat alone in darkness. Thinking. 

Jason’s room. That shelf. The treasures he’d preserved. 

Every small thing I’d ever given him sat there like museum pieces. 

For one moment in that room, I’d let myself believe it meant something. That maybe he’d truly loved me after 

all. 

But I couldn’t afford that fantasy anymore. 

Because even if those items meant something to him, they represented Laila. Dead Laila. The girl he’d lost. 

Not Vanessa. Not who I’d become. 

The shrine wasn’t proof of love–it was proof of guilt. 

He’d kept those things after believing I was dead. After it became safe. After consequences vanished. 

If he’d truly loved me while I was alive, he wouldn’t have chosen Brittany so easily. Wouldn’t have dismissed our relationship as mere curiosity. Wouldn’t have let me walk away pregnant and completely alone. 

The collection was just Jason’s way of managing guilt. Nothing more than that. 

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