From Substitute Wife to the Don's Queen

Gemma's POV

In my past life, I replaced my runaway sister Beatrice and was forced to marry mob enforcer Rowan Sinclair.

She thought he was poor with no future, so she ran. My parents didn't even tell me before sending me in her place.

Rowan knew the truth. He carried it like shame, never truly seeing me—only cold stares and silent contempt. I spent years beside him like an unwanted ghost, carefully managing his world while he rose from despised smuggler to feared godfather.

Then his attitude began to change.

Just when I thought we might have a real future, Beatrice returned with tears and lies, claiming I'd stolen her place. Rowan believed her. My parents betrayed me. Everyone chose her.

When a rival family captured us both, guns to our heads, only one could survive.

Rowan pulled Beatrice into his arms and abandoned me without a glance.

They tortured me for three days. The baby in my womb died first. Its father never knew it existed.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back to that afternoon before it all began.

"Ms. Hartley." My lawyer Holden set down his glasses. "The divorce papers are ready. But we're talking about Don Sinclair here. Without his signature, this document is worthless."

"I'll handle the signature."

He looked like he wanted to say more. In the end, he stamped the papers without another word.

Outside the firm, I tucked the documents into my bag and paused on the steps. The harsh sunlight hit my face, sharp as the memory of my last moment alive—the Vance family, guns raised, forcing Rowan to choose. He didn't hesitate. Didn't even glance at me. Just crossed the room and put his body in front of Beatrice. After that, they said Don Sinclair had personally disavowed me. Said I was nobody. Said they could do whatever they wanted.

They did.

Broken ribs. Three days. A baby who never got the chance to breathe.

I closed my eyes for a second, then flagged down a car to the Sinclair estate.

The door hadn't even fully opened before my mother Josephine's voice cut through it like a blade.

"Where the hell have you been?! Beatrice's party starts at three—I told you yesterday to have the cupcakes ready. Are you deaf, or just doing this on purpose?!"

My father Emmett came from the direction of the dining room, each step deliberate on the marble floor. "You show up now? You're just jealous that Rowan threw Beatrice a party."

"Today is also my birthday—"

My mother laughed, short and cold. "You think marrying into this house makes you worthy of the Sinclair name?"

My father didn't miss a beat. "Beatrice and Rowan were always meant to end up together. If it weren't for you, she'd already be Sinclair's wife."

I stood there and thought of childhood birthdays—how I used to hope for a cake. Just a small one. I stopped hoping eventually, but every year something in me would still quietly wait. Wait until dark. Wait until it was certain nothing was coming.

This was the last time I'd ever wait.

I swallowed the feeling and said nothing.

Footsteps on the stairs. Beatrice came down in a sage-green dress, hair loosely pinned, eyes softening into that perfectly practiced expression of hers.

She touched my father's arm. "Dad, don't be so hard on her. She has it tough too." Then she turned to me with a small sigh. "If I hadn't left the way I did, Rowan never would have…" She let it trail off. "I don't blame you, Gemma."

As the last word landed, the corner of her mouth curved—just barely. Just enough.

In my past life, I'd heard those words and chosen silence. I stayed silent all the way to my death.

"I'm divorcing Rowan."

Three seconds of silence.

My mother's teacup froze mid-air. Beatrice went rigid. My father recovered first with a derisive laugh. "Good. What have you done for this family in three years? Nothing."

My mother didn't hide her disdain. "We'll give you half the assets when it's done—don't say we didn't give you anything."

Beatrice's smile turned cold. "Stop the games. Get it done and get out of this house. Out of Rowan's life. For good."

I looked at all three of them and said, "You'll have exactly what you want. Very soon."

Upstairs, I started packing. My bedroom door opened without a knock.

Rowan stood in the doorway, eyes fixed on my bag. "Where were you this morning? It's Beatrice's birthday. You vanished for hours."

I pulled out the papers. "Couldn't sleep. Went to the hospital for a checkup and handled some paperwork. I just need your signature."

He took the documents without looking at them, uncapped his pen, signed at the bottom, and dropped them back into my hands.

"Today is my birthday too," I said quietly.

He paused. Stood there for a moment.

Then walked out.

I looked down at his signature. Three years, ended in seconds—without even the courtesy of eye contact.

I laughed, somewhere inside myself.

The door opened again. Beatrice slipped her arm through Rowan's. "Rowan, can you tell me if this dress works for tonight?" 

His expression—tight and indifferent a moment ago—softened as he turned to her. "Go change first." Then he glanced back at me. "Make sure the reception tonight goes smoothly."

In the hallway, Beatrice looked over her shoulder. "Rowan, you're a little hard on Gemma sometimes. She is still your wife."

Rowan's voice didn't shift. "She doesn't deserve the title."

I stood there for three full seconds before I understood what had just shattered—the last splinter of hope I'd been keeping for myself. Something small and stubborn that had somehow survived everything, still refusing to die.

It finally did.

He used to hold me and say he kept our marriage private to protect me. I believed him. I believed him all the way to the end.

I pressed my fingers lightly to the corner of my eye. Nothing came. Maybe tears, too, understood when something wasn't worth the effort.

Then I looked down, eyes settling on the faint curve just barely visible beneath the hem of my dress.

I smiled—and this time, I meant it.

If I don't deserve it, I thought, then I won't trouble him any longer.