The Unwanted Wife's Daring Escape Plan

The documents on Kelly Hudson's desk were neatly stacked. Funding proposals, case studies, advocacy letters for women's shelters—every page is a small step in her efforts to make the world a better place. The fluorescent lights of the Midtown Manhattan office buzzed, making the nearly empty building feel especially lonely. It was already past eight o'clock, but she preferred the quiet, as it made it easier to concentrate.

The phone screen lit up, sending a blinding blue light through the dim light. An unfamiliar number. She almost ignored her—maybe by the wrong number, or by a salesman working overtime. But she caught sight of the small text below the call: New York City Police Department.

The air in her lungs instantly froze into ice. His breath caught. His fingers, once skilled at organizing documents, froze on the pages. She stared at the screen, her heart pounding wildly against her ribs like a trapped bird. Jamie. That name screamed silently in my mind. He was supposed to have dinner with investors, but he was always rushing to dinners, meetings, and various social events.

She swiped her trembling fingers to answer.

"Hello?" Her voice was thin and sharp, so sharp that even she couldn't tell what she was.

"Excuse me, is it Kelly Hudson?" The voice on the other end of the line was calm and emotionless. A man's voice.

"Yes. It's me. ”

"Ma'am, I am Officer Miller. I called to inform you that your husband, Jamie Conway, is currently here for inquiries. The location is a boutique hotel in the Chelsea district. ”

These words don't make any sense. They are just a bunch of voices: inquiries, Chelsea, hotels.

"Inquiry?" I don't understand. Is he okay? Did there be an accident? ”

There was a pause. Silence spread, filled only by the humming of office lights.

"Ma'am, we are investigating a fatal incident."

Kelly's stomach suddenly twisted into pain. "A death incident?" Whose death? ”

"The deceased was a male escort." The officer's tone remained unchanged. "Your husband was present at the time."

Male companions. Those two words struck her hard. The edge of the world becomes blurred. The neatly arranged pile of documents on the desk lost its shape. The rumors she had dismissed for two years—whispers at charity galas, tacit mockery from other ladies—all surged back like a dirty wave. She once called them malicious lies. She had defended him. She once believed in him.

"This...... That's impossible. "She whispered hoarsely, her throat tight." It must be a mistake. ”

"Ma'am, we just need to ask him a few questions. That's all there is to it. ”

"Where are you? Tell me where you are. She had already stood up, grabbed her handbag, and the keys clattered against the table.

The officer gave her the address. When she tried to ask for more details, he interrupted her.

"I couldn't reveal more over the phone. The investigation is ongoing. ”

The call was disconnected.

Kelly stood frozen in place, her silent phone still pressed to her ear. The room seemed to be tilted. She grabbed the trench coat from the back of her chair and rushed out. Her fingers clumsily poked the elevator button, pressing the light three times before it turned on. Waiting is torture, every second feels as long as a lifetime.

The elevator doors finally slid open. She rushed in, her pale, terrified face reflected on the polished steel walls—like a stranger. She rushed out of the elevator, passed through the lobby, and her practical work shoes tapped loudly on the marble floor. The night shift security guard looked up in surprise. She pushed open the revolving door and plunged into the biting cold of November's New York.

The wind whipped her hair against her face. She couldn't care. She rushed to the roadside and suddenly raised her arm to stop a taxi. A yellow taxi suddenly stopped in front of her.

She stumbled into the car, the smell of stale coffee and air freshener wafting over.

"Gainsworth Hotel. Chelsea. "Her voice trembled as she spoke, barely forming a sentence." Please, hurry up. ”

The driver muttered as he entered the slow, writhing evening rush hour. Every red light became a form of vigilante justice. The city's horns and sirens seemed to play a symphony in her mind.

She closed her eyes tightly, her hands twisted together on her knees. The image of Jamie this morning flashed through her mind—he kissed her forehead before leaving home. His smile was perfect, and his suit was spotless. "Have a great day, Kyle." He said this, his voice warm and steady, the kind she was familiar with.

It must be a mistake. An absurd, terrible mistake. Jamie is a good man. Her husband. The one who held her tightly when she had nightmares, the one who told her she was the only beautiful thing in her life.

The taxi turned onto Ninth Avenue and immediately slowed down. On the street ahead, red and blue police lights flashed like a chaotic cluster of stars. Police cars, ambulances, and several interview vehicles blocked the road.

"Ma'am, this is as far as I can go." The driver pointed to the chaos.

Kelly didn't wait. She stuffed a stack of cash into the passenger seat, pushed open the car door, and walked out. The air was filled with the noise of media currents.

The first thing she saw was the cordon—a conspicuous yellow ribbon sealing off the hotel entrance. Behind the line, a large group of photographers and reporters crowded together to compete for a shot, raising their cameras high. The flash kept blasting continuously, "bang bang bang," so dazzling that it was hard to keep your eyes open.

She tried to hide at the edge of the crowd, head down, just wanting to get up to the cordon. But it was useless.

"Hey, that's not ——?"

A sharp-eyed reporter spotted her and pointed the microphone at her. "It's Kelly Hudson! Conway's wife! ”

The crowd turned their heads in unison. A wall made up of a body and a camera pressed down on her.

"Mrs. Conway! How do you respond to your husband being found with a deceased male sex worker? ”

"Do you know he's been soliciting prostitutes all along?"

"Mrs. Conway, is there something wrong with your marriage?"

Those questions are as sharp and cruel as stone. The microphone was pushed up to her face. The flash was too dazzling, scorching her eyes and leaving patches of purple afterimages in her vision. She staggered backward, her heel tripping on the uneven road. The back crashed into the cold, hard hood of a police car. She was surrounded.

She raised her arm to cover her face, her chin tense. She won't let them see a single tear, won't let them succeed. She couldn't say a single word.

Just as the wave of panic was about to engulf her, the hotel's glass door suddenly flung open.

Jamie came out.

He was accompanied by a man dressed in a sophisticated suit, probably his lawyer. Jamie's own suit was flawless, without a single wrinkle. Her hair was meticulously combed. He appeared calm and composed, even with a hint of impatience.

His gaze swept across the crowd, finally settling on her. He frowned. He then began to move—pushing through the crowd with an authority that reporters could not ignore.

"Move aside!" He ordered, his voice low and like a roar.

In just a few steps, he walked over to her, hugged her, and pulled her to his side. His body was like a solid, warm wall, keeping her isolated from cameras and questioning. He exuded the scent of his expensive cologne, along with another smell—a bit like the sterile air in a hotel.

He lowered his head, his lips brushing past her ear. The reporters couldn't hear what he said. Only she could hear it.

"It's all nonsense, Kyle." He whispered that sound was a firm and reassuring anchor in the storm. "It's completely fabricated. Trust me. ”

She looked up at him—those deep brown eyes she knew very well. It is filled with sincere and unwavering love. The panic in his chest faded for a moment. The knot in my stomach loosened. Of course. It must be a misunderstanding.

Jamie straightened up and turned to the camera. His expression seamlessly shifts into a mask of politeness and weary, patient patience.

"My wife and I have no comment." His voice carried a confident sense of well-trainedness. "I just happened to be nearby and am cooperating with the police investigation. Now, let us leave. ”

He held her hand, his fingers intertwined with hers, strong and resolute. He slightly raised their clasped hands, sending a clear signal to the vultures: we are invincible.

The lawyer led the way, walking ahead. Jamie guided her through the automatically parting crowd toward a black Maybach parked by the roadside. The driver opened the car door for them.

She slipped into the luxurious leather seats, the heavy doors behind her making a dull "bang," blocking out the noise and flashing lights.

As soon as he got into the car, Jamie let go of her hand.

His palm was icy cold. Chilled to the bone.

The car drove away from the roadside, silently gliding into the night. Kelly stared at the dark car window; the brief sense of relief from earlier had faded, replaced by a spreading, spine-chilling fear.

She watched the chaos gradually fade away. His gaze shifted to the street corner—where a sleek black Rolls-Royce Phantom was parked, hidden in the shadows, almost merging into the darkness.

In an instant, the rear window lowered slightly, just allowing her to see the silhouette of a man inside.

In the front seat of the Rolls-Royce, an assistant spoke softly into his phone, his eyes fixed on the departing Maybach. "Yes, Mr. Baumon. It was her. That was Ms. Hudson. ”

Alaric Baumon kept his gaze fixed on the Maybach's taillights until they disappeared into the traffic. He said nothing. Only the muscles in his jaw twitched slightly—in the darkness, it was a tiny, almost invisible movement.