Paper Promise: The Substitute Bride - Chapter 2: Chapter 2

The next morning, the breakfast room of the Reynolds mansion was a masterpiece in shades of cream and gold. The morning light streamed through the French windows, making the fine china sparkle on the impeccably set table.
“Good morning, dear daughter-in-law,” Mrs. Reynolds said as I entered, her voice too sweet to be sincere. “I hope you slept well in the guest room.”
I blushed as I realized that she knew exactly where I had spent the night. I think everyone did.
“Coffee’s served, ma’am,” the housekeeper announced, placing a tray of freshly baked croissants on the table.
James was already there, hiding behind the financial newspaper, with his untouched black coffee in front of him. He didn’t even raise his eyes when I sat down.
“Laura, darling, you need to eat more,” Catherine Reynolds said, pushing a plate of eggs benedict towards me. “You’re too thin. What will people think? That you’re sick.”
“That she doesn’t live up to the Reynolds’ name, as usual,” Margaret, James’ sister, entered the room, her heels tapping on the marble floor. “Good morning, little brother.”
James finally put down the paper to smile at his sister. It was the first genuine smile I’d seen him give since the wedding.
“The coffee’s cold,” he said dryly to the housekeeper, ignoring my presence. “Bring another.”
“So, Laura,” Margaret leaned over the table, her eyes twinkling with mischief, “have you got used to your new position yet? It must be quite an adjustment, considering your origins.”
Before I could reply, James intervened.
“Laura knows exactly where you stand in this house, don’t you, dear?”
The tone of his voice made my stomach turn. I nodded silently, staring at the untouched cup of tea in front of me.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Mrs. Catherine pulled a gold envelope from her purse. “Charity ball on Friday. Laura, dear, I’ll send my personal seamstress over this afternoon. We need to make sure you’re…presentable.”
“That won’t be necessary,” James folded the newspaper methodically. “Laura has other commitments.”
“But son…”
“I said no.” He stood, straightening his jacket. “Excuse me, I have an important meeting.”
When he left, the silence hung over the table like a toxic cloud. I could feel the two women’s eyes assessing me, judging me, as the croissants cooled, untouched, like my appetite for the life that was now mine.
“The driver is waiting, James,” Mrs. Reynolds said softly.
“I don’t need a driver, Mom. Laura will drive me,” James declared, making everyone at the table freeze.
“Me?” I asked, surprised at the first time he had given me a direct task.
“Yes. Since you insist on working, you can start by being useful. Be my personal chauffeur,” he smiled coldly. “After all, I can’t have my wife working at some random bookstore, but driving for me… that’s acceptable, don’t you think?”
Margaret let out a mocking laugh as I felt my face heat up.
“James, dear, are you sure?” her mother asked, clearly uncomfortable.
“Absolutely.” He tossed the Audi keys in my direction. “Don’t keep me waiting, Laura.”
On shaky legs, I stood up from the table. Mrs. Reynolds sighed heavily.
“Laura,” she called as I stood at the door. “Remember: you’re a Reynolds now. Even if… well, even under the current circumstances.”
In the hallway, James was waiting for me with an expression of pure disdain.
“Rule number one: don’t talk to me during the ride. Rule number two: keep an appropriate distance from other drivers. And rule number three,” he leaned closer, his expensive cologne invading my senses, “don’t you dare think of this as an opportunity to bond. It’s a punishment.”
“Why are you doing this?” I whispered.
“Because I can,” he replied simply. “And because I want you to understand exactly where you belong in this family.”
The sound of our footsteps echoed down the marble hallway, each click of my heels reminding me that this was just another of the many humiliations to come.
“You have twenty minutes.”
The Audi’s plush interior was a stark contrast to the ice that had settled between us. I kept my eyes fixed on the road, remembering the first rule: no talking during the ride. Each red light seemed to last forever.
James sighed in irritation every time I slowed down, but I remained silent. The sound of his fingers on his cell phone was the only soundtrack to that tense morning.
“Incompetent,” he muttered as I stopped at yet another traffic light.
I bit my lip to keep from answering. His rules echoed in my mind: don’t talk, don’t come near, keep your distance.
I watched him in the rearview mirror of the car.
James Reynolds was the kind of man who made women sigh when he walked into a room. Tall, almost 6’3", his broad shoulders perfectly filled out his tailored Italian suits. His black hair, always smoothed with gel, highlighted his aristocratic features - defined jaw, straight nose, thick eyebrows that shaded sapphire-blue eyes. But they were cold, calculating eyes that never smiled, even when his well-shaped lips curved into a social smile.
When we finally pulled up in front of the imposing Reynolds Enterprises building, James got out of the car and slammed the door shut, his perfectly tailored Italian suit a stark contrast to his stormy expression.
I let my tense muscles relax for a brief moment, but then I noticed the black leather briefcase was still in the backseat.
“James,” I called softly through the window, but he had already disappeared through the revolving doors.
I looked at the briefcase, my heart racing. There were important documents in there, I knew. Documents he would need for the meeting.
Rule number one echoed in my mind again: no talking during the ride.
But the ride was over, and I didn’t have his phone number. I didn’t have my husband’s phone number. Undecided, I stared at the briefcase for no more than a few seconds.
I glanced at myself in the rearview mirror to check my appearance, which needed to be perfect. My shoulder-length blonde hair and light makeup were presentable.
I headed toward the reception to hand it over.
Distracted by my anxiety, I didn’t notice the unevenness on the floor. When I realized it, I had already tripped, feeling a sharp pain in my knee. A slight cut, but enough to make the blood run.
“Damn,” I muttered.
I stood up with a nervous urge, heading quickly to the building’s reception area. My hurried footsteps echoed throughout the room.
“Where is James Reynolds’ office?”
“Who wants it?” the receptionist asked with an inquisitive look, shaking my resolve.
I hesitated for a brief moment before answering.
“I’m Laura, his wife.”
The words came out like venom, each syllable imbued with a resentment I could barely contain.
“Penthouse. Use the private elevator,” she replied without hesitation.
The elevator doors opened to reveal a large reception area with a glass wall. Through the reflection, I saw James, absorbed in a phone call, sitting majestically behind his desk.
“How can someone so handsome be so cruel?” I muttered to myself.
I felt a chill run down my spine when our eyes met - his, as cold as a steel blade.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he questioned, approaching me irritably.
“You forgot something in the car. I don’t have your phone number to let you know,” I replied, trying to remain calm.
For a few seconds, his gaze examined me thoroughly, until he came across my bleeding knee.
One of his secretaries appeared in the doorway, she was dressed in an outfit that was too sexy for a simple secretary.
“Sir, meeting in a minute,” she announced, and her eyes rested on me for a moment.
“Let them wait,” he said, with an indifferent tone that left no room for debate.
His eyes looked at me again, intense. “Come to my office.”
I hesitated, torn between the instinct to retreat and the curiosity his words had aroused.
“Are you just going to stand there?”
The impatience in his voice made me react, and I quickened my pace to follow him.
When I reached the living room, he stared at me with a mixture of suspicion and authority.
“How did you get hurt?” he asked, but his tone was more of a demand than any sign of concern.
“It was just a fall. Nothing serious,” I mumbled, looking away.
“Sit down.”
Without waiting for an answer, he left the room. Before I could decide whether to obey, he returned, carrying antiseptic and a pack of Band-Aids. He placed the items on the table between us with a direct gesture.
“Take care of it,” he ordered, his voice thick with authority.
“It’s nothing,” I insisted, in the same hushed tone as before.
“I didn’t ask if it was,” he replied, his eyes fixed on mine. “How many times do I have to repeat myself?” he said, his tone sharp. “You’re a Reynolds now. You can’t go around looking like that, slovenly. This isn’t about you, it’s about my family’s reputation.”
Those words fell like a stone to my stomach. For a foolish moment, I even believed there was some trace of genuine concern in his attitude.
It was just pride, nothing more.
Before I could react, he grabbed my phone, his movements quick and precise. Without asking for permission, he typed something and handed it back to me.
“You now have my number,” he declared, cold as ever. “Call only in cases of life or death.”
I swallowed hard, fighting the urge to say something that would only make the situation worse. I simply closed my hand around the phone, a silent reminder of who was in control.