He Said I Was Just a Surrogate Tool

On her husband's birthday, he kissed a stranger.

Vivian Perkins replayed the video dozens of times.

The atmosphere in the clip was thick with heat and suggestion.

Patrick Sterling, egged on by the crowd, was dared to kiss his birthday present—a woman in a champagne-colored slip dress. He let out a careless laugh, pulled her close by the shoulder, and kissed her.

Vivian couldn't see his expression. She only knew the kiss was fierce.

The woman's hand slid up to his neck. He didn't push her away. He let her fingers thread through his hair.

Whistles and cheers erupted in the private room.

Someone shouted, "Mr. Sterling, a beauty's throwing herself at you—don't bother going home tonight!"

The video cut off.

At the dining table, candlelight flickered. The steak had long gone cold.

She'd spent the entire day preparing. Inside a velvet box lay sapphire cufflinks she'd carefully chosen.

None of it mattered now.

Patrick didn't come home until after midnight.

He walked into the living room tugging at his tie, suit jacket draped over his arm, reeking of alcohol—it only made him look more careless, more untouchable.

"You're back." Vivian's throat tightened. She stood. "I'll heat up dinner."

"Don't waste your time." He sneered. "I give you two hundred grand a month. Not so you can play housekeeper."

Before she could respond, he crossed the room.

His hand locked around her wrist. Vivian cried out as he shoved her backward onto the dining table.

A candle tipped over. Hot wax splattered onto the back of her hand. She hissed.

His fingers caught the collar of her dress and yanked hard.

"Don't—!"

The fabric tore.

The neckline gaped open, exposing delicate skin. Desire flared in his eyes.

The sharp edge of alcohol mixed with his woody cologne—and something else. A strange perfume. Another woman's.

Vivian's fingers clenched the tablecloth, knuckles white.

"What's with the act? It's not like we haven't done this before." Patrick forced her legs apart, his gaze dark. "Or are you in the mood for something different?"

Warm breath brushed her ear, sending a shiver down her spine.

Vivian bit her lip. "You're drunk. Let me help you to bed..."

"Vivian, you crawled into my bed first, didn't you? Wanted me to fuck you. So why the innocent act now?"

His tone dripped with contempt. His eyes swept over the candlelit dinner she'd prepared, then landed on the velvet box. His expression turned colder.

"I..." Vivian couldn't argue. Her heart felt torn open, raw and aching.

That morning she'd woken up in Patrick's bed. Her body ached from a night she couldn't remember. Patrick's furious accusations rang in her ears—why did she drug him when she knew he loved someone else?

She had no proof. No defense.

She'd explained countless times since. Patrick never believed her. He only punished her more.

"Ha. Not gonna lie your way out this time? Or are you finally admitting you're a slut who crawled into her own sister's boyfriend's bed?" Patrick's grip tightened around her hand, like he wanted to crush bone.

"Calm down." Vivian tried to pull away.

Patrick was tall, strong. She didn't stand a chance.

Her body lifted off the ground. He'd picked her up.

"What are you doing?" Panic flooded her. She clung to his neck.

Patrick carried her straight toward the bedroom.

Vivian screamed. The next second, he threw her down.

She hit the mattress hard, sinking into the plush surface. One thought filled her mind. Run.

But Patrick didn't give her the chance. He flipped her over and pinned her beneath him.

She tried to resist. He caught her wrists and held them above her head. She couldn't move.

"Let me go..." Vivian sobbed.

This Patrick felt like a stranger.

She remembered the boy from years ago. The one who'd saved her, who'd smiled and told her not to be afraid. He'd been like sunlight in her life—warm and bright.

The man above her now was violent. Unhinged.

The sound of tearing fabric cut through the air, slicing into her heart.

Her back went cold, exposed. Scraps of her dress scattered across the sheets. She tried to curl in on herself. He held her still.

"Why are you crying? I'm giving you what you want, aren't I?" Patrick sneered, his hands never stopping.

His palm pressed against her bare skin, cold enough to make her flinch. She was a lamb waiting for slaughter.

"You can't do this to me..." Tears streaked down Vivian's face.

She didn't mind being with Patrick. But he didn't treat her like a wife. She was just a tool for venting his rage.

Patrick ignored her tears.

He pulled off his tie and tossed it aside. His shirt and pants stayed on. He only undid his belt.

A moment later, his hand forced her legs apart. Without giving her a chance to struggle, Patrick drove into her.

No foreplay. No tenderness. Every thrust, every impact brought only pain.

Patrick scowled at her stiff expression. "Don't act like you don't want this."

He angled his hips, grinding deliberately against her most sensitive spot. Every stroke hit with brutal precision.

Not until Vivian lost control—her voice breaking, her eyes glazed—did he slow. He gripped her chin and forced her to turn her face toward his.

Vivian looked up. For a fleeting moment, she saw tenderness in his eyes. Something he'd never shown her before. She fell into that softness, just for a second.

Then he spoke.

"Jenny..."

Reality crashed down.

He was humiliating her on purpose. Letting her know he only fucked her because she was a stand-in for her sister. For Jennifer Perkins.

Like ice water dousing a flame, the realization killed every fragile hope she'd been holding onto.

Patrick's breathing grew ragged. His movements turned savage.

His fingers dug into her slender waist, leaving bruises in their wake.

No matter how rough he got, Vivian bit her lip. She refused to make a sound.

She mocked him. "You love Jenny so much. So why are you here with me?"

"Shut up. You're just Jenny's replacement. You don't even deserve to say her name."

Her words enraged him. He grabbed her legs and forced them apart, bending them back.

Vivian's legs spread wide, locked in a degrading position. He pushed deeper, as if she were begging for it.

"Look at you. Such a whore. Where's the dignity of Mrs. Sterling now?" Patrick scoffed.

He pounded into her harder, faster. Shame and pleasure crashed over her in waves, forcing a cry from her throat.

"Patrick, you bastard—let me go!" She felt like her body would break apart.

Each brutal thrust shoved her forward.

A photo frame on the nightstand toppled over with a sharp crack.

Their wedding photo. In it, she was smiling so brightly.

There had been a time when they got along. Before that incident. After it, everything changed.