Chapter 6
*(Luca's POV)*
That night, I pulled up everything on the Ashford family.
Charles Ashford. Seventy-eight. Net worth: $43 billion. No public heirs — until one month ago when his "granddaughter" appeared. A granddaughter named Evelyn.
The pieces clicked together with nauseating precision.
Evelyn Ward. Evelyn Ashford. The same woman.
My contract wife — the one I'd treated as a glorified housekeeper — was the sole heir to one of the wealthiest families in the country.
She'd hidden it. For three years, she'd let me believe she was nobody. She'd signed my contract, taken my scraps, endured my indifference — all while sitting on a fortune that made mine look like pocket change.
Why?
My investigator finally supplied the answer. Her mother, Helen, had eloped with a man the Ashfords disapproved of. Charles had cut her off. When Evelyn's father died and Helen fell ill, pride kept them from going back.
Until I drove Evelyn to the breaking point.
Until I killed her mother.
No — I didn't kill her. I just removed every obstacle between Helen and death, then looked the other way.
The distinction didn't make me feel better.
I tried calling Ashford Medical's office. "Ms. Ashford is unavailable." I tried her direct line — disconnected. I tried showing up at their building — security escorted me out before I reached the elevator.
She'd built a wall around herself, and my name wasn't on the guest list.
Meanwhile, Bianca noticed my obsession.
"Luca, you've been staring at that magazine for an hour," she said from the bedroom doorway, her voice carefully casual. "Come to bed."
I turned slowly.
Eight weeks pregnant, she'd said. I'd accepted it without question — I'd been sleeping with both of them during the overlap, too selfish to think about consequences.
But now... something nagged at me.
"Bianca, when exactly did you take the pregnancy test?"
Her smile flickered. "I told you. The night before the gala."
"And the timeline — it matches with...?"
"Of course it matches!" She laughed, but it was pitched too high. "Luca, what's wrong with you?"
I studied her face. The same face I'd known since childhood — lovely, delicate, always knowing exactly which expression to wear.
The same face that had answered Evelyn's seventeenth call and told me it "wasn't urgent."
"What did Evelyn say to you that night?" I asked quietly.
Bianca blinked. "What night?"
"The night her mother died. She called. You answered. What did she say?"
A long pause. Then Bianca sat on the bed, crossing her legs elegantly. "She said something about her mother. I passed the message along."
"You told me she wanted to discuss seating arrangements."
"Did I?" Bianca's hand drifted to her stomach. "I was tired, Luca. Maybe I forgot the details. Why does it matter now? She's gone."
I stared at her for a long time.
Then I stood, took my coat, and walked out without another word.
That night, I drove to the cemetery. It took an hour to find the right headstone — a simple granite marker in an unremarkable corner.
*Helen Marie Ward. Beloved Mother. 1961–2024.*
No flowers. No visitors besides the one who'd already said goodbye.
I stood there until dawn, and I couldn't bring myself to kneel, because I knew I didn't deserve even that gesture of repentance.
In the morning, I called my lawyer.
"Get me a paternity test," I said. "Without Bianca knowing."
That night, I pulled up everything on the Ashford family.
Charles Ashford. Seventy-eight. Net worth: $43 billion. No public heirs — until one month ago when his "granddaughter" appeared. A granddaughter named Evelyn.
The pieces clicked together with nauseating precision.
Evelyn Ward. Evelyn Ashford. The same woman.
My contract wife — the one I'd treated as a glorified housekeeper — was the sole heir to one of the wealthiest families in the country.
She'd hidden it. For three years, she'd let me believe she was nobody. She'd signed my contract, taken my scraps, endured my indifference — all while sitting on a fortune that made mine look like pocket change.
Why?
My investigator finally supplied the answer. Her mother, Helen, had eloped with a man the Ashfords disapproved of. Charles had cut her off. When Evelyn's father died and Helen fell ill, pride kept them from going back.
Until I drove Evelyn to the breaking point.
Until I killed her mother.
No — I didn't kill her. I just removed every obstacle between Helen and death, then looked the other way.
The distinction didn't make me feel better.
I tried calling Ashford Medical's office. "Ms. Ashford is unavailable." I tried her direct line — disconnected. I tried showing up at their building — security escorted me out before I reached the elevator.
She'd built a wall around herself, and my name wasn't on the guest list.
Meanwhile, Bianca noticed my obsession.
"Luca, you've been staring at that magazine for an hour," she said from the bedroom doorway, her voice carefully casual. "Come to bed."
I turned slowly.
Eight weeks pregnant, she'd said. I'd accepted it without question — I'd been sleeping with both of them during the overlap, too selfish to think about consequences.
But now... something nagged at me.
"Bianca, when exactly did you take the pregnancy test?"
Her smile flickered. "I told you. The night before the gala."
"And the timeline — it matches with...?"
"Of course it matches!" She laughed, but it was pitched too high. "Luca, what's wrong with you?"
I studied her face. The same face I'd known since childhood — lovely, delicate, always knowing exactly which expression to wear.
The same face that had answered Evelyn's seventeenth call and told me it "wasn't urgent."
"What did Evelyn say to you that night?" I asked quietly.
Bianca blinked. "What night?"
"The night her mother died. She called. You answered. What did she say?"
A long pause. Then Bianca sat on the bed, crossing her legs elegantly. "She said something about her mother. I passed the message along."
"You told me she wanted to discuss seating arrangements."
"Did I?" Bianca's hand drifted to her stomach. "I was tired, Luca. Maybe I forgot the details. Why does it matter now? She's gone."
I stared at her for a long time.
Then I stood, took my coat, and walked out without another word.
That night, I drove to the cemetery. It took an hour to find the right headstone — a simple granite marker in an unremarkable corner.
*Helen Marie Ward. Beloved Mother. 1961–2024.*
No flowers. No visitors besides the one who'd already said goodbye.
I stood there until dawn, and I couldn't bring myself to kneel, because I knew I didn't deserve even that gesture of repentance.
In the morning, I called my lawyer.
"Get me a paternity test," I said. "Without Bianca knowing."