Substitute Wife

Shadows cling to the dim room as invisible fingers tug a sleek dress over Chanel Preston's limp form on the rumpled bed, yanking the zipper with a sharp rasp, ironing out every crease against her curves. A silver bracelet snaps onto her wrist, cold and final, then crimson lipstick smears across her unmoving mouth, tender yet possessive. Her eyes stay hidden, a ghost in silk. From the bed's haze, Tommy Pistol looms in POV, arms folded like a sentinel, eyes raking over his handiwork. He pauses, jaw tight, then vanishes into the gloom. He reappears with stilettos, their heels clicking like accusations. Close-up: his rough hands slide the shoes onto her delicate feet, buckling them with deliberate care. Back to POV, he surveys her, a predatory grin cracking his face. 'I hope you can hear me, honey,' Tommy murmurs, voice laced with honeyed venom as he perches on the bed's edge, claiming her hand in his grip. Silence stretches, taut as a wire. 'No, I KNOW you damn well can. Look, I get it—shit went south after your wreck, and my apologies are just hot air. Won't fix the mess. But we're pushing ahead, you and me. I'm all in, swearing to be the man you need, to drag us out of this pit.' His gaze locks on her, tears welling in the murk, hand trembling as he sweeps Gianna Dior's dark strands from Chanel's face—no, wait, the vision blurs, his touch igniting a forbidden spark between the substitute wife and her maker, tension coiling like smoke in the forbidden night.