His Fake Wife Is A Genius Hacker

Ava Peterson POV:

I watched my husband, the city’s newest hero, lie to the entire country on live television.

On the massive screen that dominated our living room wall, FBI Special Agent Harrison Phelps stood at a podium, a dozen microphones aimed at his perfectly chiseled jaw. The flashes of cameras glinted off his dark, impeccably styled hair. He was being hailed as the “Guardian of D.C.” for single-handedly thwarting a terrorist plot.

I sat on the cold leather sofa, my hand resting protectively on my still-flat stomach. The gesture was unconscious, a constant, secret reassurance. This baby, this tiny flicker of life, was the last thread holding my six-year marriage together. It had to be. I’d grown up in the splintered wreckage of a broken home; I would die before I let my own child suffer the same fate.

Harrison’s face, the one I used to trace with my fingertips as he slept, looked like a stranger’s. It was a mask of heroic humility, crafted for public consumption.

The camera zoomed in as he gave the press his signature, charmingly crooked smile. "I couldn't have done it without my team," he said, his voice smooth and confident. "And, of course, the unwavering support of my family, who stand behind me through it all."

The word "family" landed like a shard of glass in my throat. I let out a short, bitter laugh that was swallowed by the cavernous silence of the penthouse.

I clicked the remote, and Harrison vanished. The sudden quiet was deafening, broken only by the distant hum of city traffic thirty floors below. I picked up my phone and scrolled through our photos, a gallery of a life that felt like it belonged to someone else. There we were, two years ago, smiling on a sailboat, his arm wrapped tightly around me. It was the last time I’d seen that genuine smile directed at me.

A wave of nausea rolled through my stomach, a familiar symptom of the early weeks of pregnancy. I pushed myself off the sofa and went to the kitchen for a glass of warm water. I would tell him tonight, I decided. I would tell him about the baby, and maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to bring him back to me.

Just as the thought crossed my mind, the sound of a key in the front door lock made my heart leap into my throat. I stood up, smoothing down my sweater, a hopeful smile fixed on my face.

Harrison entered, bringing a gust of cold night air with him. He shrugged off his overcoat and tossed it onto the rack without a glance in my direction.

He strode past me to the wet bar, the lines of his body rigid with a tension that had nothing to do with his long day. The clink of a heavy crystal tumbler on the marble countertop was the only sound. He poured himself three fingers of whiskey, and with a sharp, angry tug, ripped his tie loose from his collar.

I approached him cautiously, my voice soft. “Tough day? I saved you some dinner.”

He downed half the whiskey in one swallow, his gaze fixed on the city lights outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Not hungry,” he said, his voice flat and cold.

My hand, which I’d started to raise to touch his arm, froze in mid-air. The smile on my face felt brittle.

I took a deep breath, gathering the courage I’d been hoarding all day. “Harrison, I… we need to talk.”

He finally turned to look at me, his blue eyes impatient. “Can’t it wait? I need to unwind.” The irritation in his tone was a familiar sting. He was an expert at making me feel like an interruption, a nuisance he was forced to tolerate.

My eyes burned, but I held my ground. “It’s important. It’s about us…”

My words were cut short by the vibration of his phone on the bar. The screen lit up.

Harrison’s eyes flickered to the phone, and the icy mask he wore for me instantly melted. He snatched it up, his movements quick and eager.

Over his shoulder, I saw the caller ID. Not a name. Just a single, glowing letter.

*B.*

He answered, turning his back to me as he walked toward the window, shielding the conversation with his body. His voice dropped to a low murmur, but the tone was unmistakable. It was a sound I hadn't heard in years—a soft, urgent warmth that was so full of joy it physically hurt to hear. It was a voice he never, ever used with me.

I stood rooted to the spot, the blood turning to ice in my veins.

I couldn’t make out the words, just fragments. “Finally… missed you… waiting.”

Six years. In six years of marriage, he had never spoken to me with that kind of unguarded tenderness.

He hung up, a genuine smile lingering on his lips. When he turned and saw me still standing there, the smile vanished as if it had never been, replaced by his usual cool indifference.

He seemed to have already forgotten I’d wanted to talk. “You’re still up?” he asked absently.

Before I could answer, his phone rang again. He answered it immediately, no longer bothering to hide. His voice, vibrant and alive, filled the silent room.

“Brooke? You’re back?”