Betrayed by the Warlord,I Faked My Death and Married His Enemy

The year our love burned brightest.

The young commander of the Governor's Residence—a name that shook the nation.

He proposed to me on the banks of the Harbor River, with 9,999 roses.

But ten years later, I was still waiting for a wedding that never came.

Out of habit, I reached to toss Barnaby Gilbert's latest tabloid scandal into the trash.

But the headline stopped me cold: "Young Commander Pays Fortune to Auction Dancer's First Night."

For once, I didn't argue. Didn't make a scene.

That night, I slept with his sworn enemy.

The next day, I went to end things.

He had his arm around his new plaything, didn't even bother looking up. "What's this? Your little fling on the side couldn't satisfy you, so you've come crawling back to throw a tantrum?"

He squeezed the woman's waist, a lazy smirk curling his lips.

"But I'm busy, fiancée."

"Why don't you take a number?"

I stared at him, unable to fathom how a person could change so completely.

"Barnaby."

My voice was calm. "I've looked after you for ten years, per Old Mr. Gilbert's dying wish."

"Today, that obligation ends."

——

His hands stilled for just a fraction of a second.

Then he smiled. "Be good. If you want to throw a fit, do it at home."

"You know threats don't work on me."

His fingers moved to the silk buttons of the woman's cheongsam, his gaze flicking toward me.

"Or would you rather stay and watch?"

I didn't move.

The woman pouted, clinging to him. "Commander, she's so annoying."

Her eyes raked over me—the utilitarian leggings at my ankles, then slowly upward.

"Dressed like she can't decide if she's a man or a woman. Hands rougher than the cleaning staff at The Velvet Paramount. Not gentle, not sweet, and old enough to be my mother." She let out a theatrical sigh. "Why would the Commander want someone like that?"

I looked down at my hands without meaning to.

She wasn't wrong. They were rough.

The calluses on the webbing between my thumb and forefinger came from training Barnaby's troops, from years of gripping rifles.

Once, he'd kissed those calluses with aching tenderness.

Whispered words that made my heart tremble.

Now the calluses had thickened. His tenderness had worn thin.

"Jealous?" Barnaby pinched the woman's cheek, indulgent. "She is my fiancée, after all. I have to give her some face."

Then he leaned close to her ear, murmuring just loud enough for me to hear: "But how could an old woman ever compare to you? Ignore her."

I stood frozen.

His words sprouted legs, crawled into my ears, and stabbed at my eardrums.

Old woman.

I was thirty-three.

Compared to Barnaby, barely past twenty, I suppose I wasn't young anymore.

High society had its theories. They whispered that Barnaby hadn't given me a title in ten years because my age disgusted him.

They even had a joke for it—called me Barnaby's "mother-wife."

But no one dared say it to his face.

Once, a famous actress mentioned it at a banquet. Just once.

Barnaby had her blacklisted and driven out of Port Haven.

He'd cradled my face in his hands, eyes full of devotion. "You'll always be a young girl to me."

"It's my fault for being born too late to catch up to you."

"If anyone ever calls you old again, I'll rip out her tongue and give her a hundred lashes to make it up to you."

Back then, I never imagined "old woman" would ever fall from his lips.

I blinked hard, forcing down the sting.

Carolyn Cooley turned and settled onto his lap.

"I don't care—I want her gone!"

"I can't stand her being here..."

Barnaby gripped her chin and kissed her, hard and claiming.

The silk buttons of her cheongsam came undone, revealing a generous swell of flesh.

I looked away.

Golden evening light filtered through the latticed window.

It made me lose focus for a moment.

Seventeen years ago, on an evening just like this one.

Lionel Gilbert had led me through the gates of the Governor's Residence.

And said to me: "This boy—from now on, he's yours to raise."