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About this story:

Invisible grocery worker Spencer agrees to a favor for her best friend—only to be recruited as a dying woman’s “substitute wife” for her powerful husband. Loyalty, desire, and control collide during ninety-six dangerous hours that could change everything.

Author’s Notes
yes we’re dropping right into the premise of our story.

You know, to get to the good part.

I’m like her – Spencer. She’s quiet, reserved, but she ain’t stupid. She knows the real deal, but she feels like she owes the world just for her presence.

I felt like that sometimes and stayed modest.

So, in essence, Spense is like an old version of me.

I would always love your input, as usual. Leave your feelings.

And don’t forget: the first three chapters are free to read, and then you need a password to access the rest, so get your access. click here

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Chapter 2 – What Her Husband Wants

A hard tap on her shoulder broke her from her concentration. Spencer wanted to finish the large order before moving on and was trying to figure out how to properly bag everything so the eight loaves of bread wouldn’t get crushed. She took special care with each order because most of the time, when customers picked up their orders while she wasn’t there, the employees didn’t care how they handled them, and she didn’t want her name associated with anything careless.

Spencer prided herself on her work, always wanting everything to be right. Taking her earpiece out to hear what her supervisor wanted, she kept silently counting the orders she needed to complete, hoping it wasn’t more work because falling behind would bother her all day.

“Hey, fancy lady asking for you at the dock,” her supervisor snipped. “Take a break, see what she wants. And remind her—no visitors on my dock. Safety hazard, especially in heels.” He glanced at Spencer’s finished orders. “You did all these?”

“Yeah,” she grumbled, annoyed at being pulled away—she hated leaving things unfinished.

The supervisor looked impressed before shaking his head and walking away. Usually, he yelled about outside guests on the dock, but this time he didn’t, perhaps because Spencer’s strong work ethic meant she’d never had anyone come bother her. He knew she valued professionalism above all and allowed interruptions only when they seemed important.

Walking out to the dock, there was no one there, but there was a beautiful, flawless, silver Maybach sedan parked near the stairs. The gentle whir of the engine hummed softly against the crisp air, a sensory reminder of its presence. Its sleek, gleaming surface seemed almost like liquid silver separating worlds, a stark reminder of the class collision Spencer was unwittingly stepping into. As she approached, the faint scent of polished leather and fresh wax wafted past, further underscoring the chasm between her world and the world of luxury before her.

Since her supervisor said, ‘fancy lady,’ Spencer surmised the woman must have gone back to her vehicle, given how cold it was outside.

Born and raised in Detroit, Spencer had spent her life outside and was used to this weather. The coverall covered her enough, and the work Timberland boots, though old, with three pairs of socks kept her feet warm as long as she didn’t step in anything wet.

Walking up to the driver’s window, she only saw a guy in a dark suit. He cracked the window just enough to show his disinterest, his eyes barely meeting hers before shifting back to the front. He thumbed her toward the back seat, a perfunctory gesture that left no room for questions. His dismissive cough punctuated the interaction, setting an unwelcoming tone.

Spencer walked to the back passenger seat. No one was sitting by the window. The woman was sitting on the other side of the vehicle. Instead of walking over there, Spencer opened the door.

“Wait!” The woman’s mature voice stopped her. “You’re dirty. These are leather seats.”

The black woman had to be about in her late forties and dripped elegance and sophistication with the longest fur coat Spencer had ever seen and a fur hat. Her presence carried a Grace Jones aura, but with a full figure. Spencer’s heartbeat quickened slightly, the woman’s commanding presence making her immediately conscious of her appearance and grounding her, momentarily, in the stark contrast between their worlds.

“You asked for me?” Spencer said.

“You’re Ms. Paige?”

Spencer confirmed. “Yes.”

The woman moved warily closer to her. “I’m Mrs. Delanie Parson, your friend’s associate, Ramona Craig. She told you I would contact you.”

“Oh, sure. Yeah. Wow. That was fast. You could have called.”

The woman’s eyes looked up and down at Spencer several times before speaking. “I needed to see you. Can you come to this address tonight?” She handed Spencer a thick business card with a handwritten note. Spencer felt the weight of the card in her hand, its heaviness echoing not just the significance of the offer it represented, but also the unexpected connection to Ramona, her dear friend and colleague. Ramona had mentioned Delanie Parsons in passing as the company’s vice president. This was someone with influence, linked to opportunities for her best friend. As Spencer held the card, she considered the implications of this request, understanding that it could affect not only her future but Ramona’s as well. The texture of the cardstock almost grounded her even as it heightened an unsettling sense of urgency.

“I work until one, ma’am. That’s late,” Spencer said. “Can it be tomorrow?”

“No,” Delanie cut her off. “It has to be tonight. I need to see if you can work before the weekend. The time doesn’t matter.” She eyed the coveralls. “Can you wear something softer?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Delanie started to smile, stopped, and huffed. “Do what you can. There’s a guest bathroom—service entrance, ring the bell.”

Annoyed, Spencer asked, “What needs cleaning this late?”

The woman smirked and pulled out several hundred-dollar bills. “The kind that doesn’t ask questions, Ms. Paige.”

Spencer looked at the money with distaste. Growing up, she had always been told to work hard for her pay, never to be swayed by easy money. Never in her life had she needed money to convince her to do anything; it reminded her of her grandmother’s words, warning against the dangers of letting money compromise her values. Her grandma used to say, “When money talks, principle walks,” and those words rang loud and clear in this moment. Still, beneath the disgust, a small voice inside her whispered about overdue bills or helping her friends. Even so, Spencer’s pride boiled, unwilling to be bought. She felt angry that Delanie thought she would throw away her principles, but couldn’t deny the pressure she felt to help Ramona.

Biting back a reply, Spencer said, “Fine, Mrs. Parson. I’ll see you at one.”

Since the car was expensive, Spencer took care to close the door firmly before walking away, without even feeling bad about not taking that woman’s money.

If her best friend didn’t need this job, she would have slammed the door with a middle finger.

Yes, that wouldn’t have been Christlike, but it would have felt good.

Now, Spencer wondered how she could politely refuse whatever job this was without Ramona losing her job. She didn’t want any part of this work, but her loyalty to Ramona—and the fear that saying no could cost her friend dearly—kept her from walking away.

She was tempted to text Ramona to refute the hoity-toity, stupid claim, but stopped herself.

True, a nice chunk of change would be nice, but this wasn’t about the money. It was about Ramona getting a promotion.

For the rest of her shift, Spencer immersed herself in her job, pushing everything away until it was time to leave. She realized she wouldn’t follow her usual routine of jumping on her bike and going home. Buses stopped running where she lived, so the bike came in handy as a backup mode of transportation.

Spencer promised that lady she would go to the house. It was two a.m. at night, and all Spencer wanted to do after a long day was to take a hot shower and get into her futon.

It’s past the time you told her; she scolded herself. The woman hadn’t given her a number, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to tell Ramona anything until she knew everything.

Taking the thick cardstock out of her pocket, Spencer realized how nice the material was, its fibers embedded with cotton. Calling a car service was easy, but she hated spending extra money on something frivolous.

For friendship’s sake, Spencer resolved to hear the woman out and later explain her refusal to Ramona.

Since it was so far from her job, she had to lock up her bike behind the garbage cans and get a ride-share to the address. She didn’t think anyone would try to touch it at two a.m.

As Spencer approached Rosedale Park, the neighborhood seemed to transform with each step. To someone else, the lush trees arching over the streets might have seemed inviting. But to Spencer, shrouded in uncertainty and apprehension, they loomed overhead, casting long shadows that danced with an unsettling menace. The historic brick homes, dominated by single-family Colonials, Tudors, and Victorians from the 1920s to 1940s, stood in sprawling front yards, watching her every move. The eerie quiet of the surroundings seemed to echo her internal tension. Each creak in the nearby branches resonated with her heightened nerves, as though the very air was taut with her anxiety. As the car drove, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the houses, with their darkened windows and silent facades, were whispering her fears back to her, making the tension within her swell.

The driver kept the cab dark, and she took off her coveralls because she was still wearing her mid-thigh-length, dark-green, short-sleeve maxi dress, the one she’d worn to lunch, but kept her Timberlands and socks on, not caring that it would look weird. The woman wanted a cleaner, not someone to entertain her.

Taking off her hat, she lightly ran a hand over her elbow-length, finger-thick two-strand braids. Her hair was the same color as her eyes, and this style was quick and easy to maintain. At least twice a year, she’d get it blown out, but days later, she would return to this style, which helps keep it from breaking off, and very little work was needed to keep the knots at bay.

“You sure you got the right address, miss?” the driver asked, suspiciously looking at her, then at the neighborhood.

Spencer clearly didn’t belong over there and realized she’d made a mistake by leaving her clothing bag on her bike, where she’d stuffed her nice shoes. Hopefully, she could take her Timberlands at the door, and it wouldn’t make a difference.

“Yes. I read the card off correctly,” she assured him as they pulled in front of a four-bedroom, mini mansion, colonial-style, brick home, the kind of small mansion where secrets seemed to linger behind every window. It was a corner home, but the other side was fenced off by a high border that enclosed an attached vacant lot, making the house look even more massive.

The front of the home faced the corner in a quirky sort of way, and Spencer noted the imposing chimney rising against the night sky, a singular structure that seemed to watch her as she stepped out, heightening her unease. She’d only seen real fireplaces in movies or buildings, not in residential homes.

There was a large pine tree in front of the home, partially covering the large bay window in the lower front, and a symmetrical bush on the side next to the porch, neatly trimmed.

“Staring at it isn’t going to make you get in there any sooner,” the driver teased.

She gulped and thanked him as she got out, carrying her coveralls over her arm, pulling the thick jacket closed as the night wind whipped about her. Getting around to the back of the house, there was only one door there before the massive fence that blocked off the rest of the property.

Instead of pressing the doorbell, feeling it was too late, Spencer only knocked.

After a moment, she knocked again; when no one answered, she jammed the card into the door to keep it from falling out, but she would make the woman aware she had tried to come.

Getting her phone out, she opened the rideshare app and called a car to the address. While she waited, she was going to slip back into her coveralls.

The door swung open all of a sudden, and that woman stood there, looking very dissatisfied, wearing a black floor-length nightgown, holding it closed against the bitter cold of Detroit’s nights.

Delanie hissed, pointing into the home. “Get in!”

The snap of cold air biting at Spencer’s exposed skin and the sudden creak of the door as it swung open added to the terse command, amplifying Delanie’s authority. Every element of the scene conspired to magnify Spencer’s reluctance, heightening the tension between the two women.

Spencer didn’t like being ordered about, but she was freezing her fingers off, so a brief moment of heat would be needed before she could brave standing outside for a car again.

Heat hit her as soon as she walked in, and she sighed, loving that they could put the temperature of the house above a reasonable amount. It must’ve cost an arm and a leg to warm up this home, but perhaps they had money like that.

“I told you to ring the bell,” the woman admonished.

Not wanting to take another moment in this brash woman’s presence, Spencer turned to her and explained, “I was late, and I felt it would be more than rude to wake up the whole household by ringing a doorbell.”

“Ms. Craig said you were smart and could follow directions.”

“As I said, it was later than planned, but it was nothing I could do about that, and I didn’t think I should call Ramona for a number that you didn’t leave one,” she said. “But if the arrangement is canceled, that’s fine with me.” She started to head to the door, but the woman moved in her way.

“I never said it was canceled.” Her eyes dropped, then slowly rose to Spencer. “Seeing you now, I’m even more convinced I’ve finally found the right one. Can you take off those horrid boots and hang that thing on the wall by the door before you join me in the kitchen, Ms. Paige?” She started toward the doorway leading to a small kitchenette.

How about I throw them at your face? Spencer thought, annoyed. “Ms. Parsons, I was thinking maybe this cleaning arrangement that you need isn’t right for me. I’m sure there are thousands of other women who could use the arrangement. I’m only here for Ramona. She wants a promotion, and I thought I could help her, but I might say something that could get her fired. So I want to be honest in this interaction and say, That’s okay. I really don’t want to help you.” She reached for the door to leave.

“I’m dying,” the woman announced.

Spencer froze. A wave of disbelief washed over her, as if the ground beneath her had shifted. Her heart skipped a beat, and she momentarily forgot to breathe, feeling as though a cold hand had wrapped around her stomach, pulling tight. Her mind raced with a mix of emotions: pity for the woman standing before her, a pang of fear for what such a revelation might mean, and a creeping suspicion about the true nature of Delanie’s intentions. Every instinct told her this encounter was anything but ordinary, leaving her grappling with a deep unease and uncertainty.

Spencer turned to her with a look of doubt. “Why do I have a feeling you’d say anything to get your way?”

I’ll say anything to make my husband happy,” Delanie said proudly. “If you sign an NDA, it will bind our conversation in complete confidentiality between us. Do you know what an NDA is?”

“Yes, I do.” Spencerr frowned, not liking the seriousness of the matter, but curious, this woman would go out of her way to get her here and insist on speaking.

Curiosity was driving her to let go of the knob, hang her coveralls up with her coat and backpack, and take her Timberlands off. Delanie didn’t leave the doorway until Spencer took her boots off and followed her as if she were going to change her mind and run out of the house.

Was she making a mistake by not following her gut?

Curiosity killed the cat.

That was Grandma Spence’s voice in her head.

“Have a seat,” Delanie insisted with a controlled niceness, but looked down at Spencer’s mismatched wool socks and grimaced in disgrace. “Would you like some tea?”

Spencer was irked, and her curiosity was waning fast with this woman. “No tea. Just let me sign the papers, and you can tell me more about why you’re dying.” Moving to the table, she made sure this was a barrier between her and the woman.

Delanie stood five feet six. Most likely in heels, she would tower over Spencer, but that didn’t intimidate her. The woman’s hoity-toitiness grated on her nerves.

“You haven’t accepted one thing from me, Ms. Paige.”

“Why is that important to you?” Spencer countered.

“I’m used to people wanting things from me.”

“It seems you want something from me, which makes you uncomfortable, and you’re using your position to make me feel some kind of way.”

Delanie only slightly relaxed herself and admitted. “You’re right.” She turned away to stop an electric kettle.

Spencer watched the woman pour herself a cup of tea and wished she hadn’t been so stubborn and had accepted something. Since she didn’t pack a lunch, she was hungry as hell, because that expensive restaurant Ramona took her to had everything on the menu to irritate her stomach, except the salad without dressing.

“I’m nervous. I’ve never done anything like this, Ms. Paige,” Delanie admitted with her back to her. When she turned around, she placed a two-page document on the table. “It’s an NDA for tonight. You won’t discuss anything with anyone except me and Mr. Parsons, my husband. If Ms. Craig asks about your situation, you’ll let her know you’re working with us on an upcoming project at the house. I specifically wanted someone of your size and build.”

“If I decide to accept this assignment,” Spencer said sharply.

Delanie pushed the paper toward her and set a pen atop it. “Signing doesn’t make you obligated. After some physical tests and an interview, we’ll know, and you can make a decision from there, please.”

Spencer almost pushed the paper back over until she heard the plea at the end. Softer than the other words spoken, almost barely heard.

Picking up the pen, she signed her name to the document and then sat down with Delanie.

“As I said, I’m dying. Stage four. There’s nothing we can do, and trust me, we’ve tried everything. My grandmother had it, my mother and my sister had it.” There was a tinge of animosity in her voice. “But I don’t regret a thing. I’ve lived a beautiful life. My father gifted me his company. I met not only the love of my life, but the man who saved my father’s company, and from his hard work bought me the house I’ve always dreamed of since I was a little girl.”

Spencer couldn’t find anything wrong with any of that, but she did feel bad for the woman.

To get everything she desired and then know she was going to die must’ve been horrifying.

“So you’re going to need me to clean up after you as you die?” Spencer asked.

“No, I’m going to need you to take my place and please my husband until my death.”

___ *** ___

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His Substitute Wife … My Best Friend (c) 2026 Sylvia Hubbard All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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