The Colonel's Stand-In Wife

Everyone on base called Charlotte Reed the perfect officer's wife—the picture of devotion.

She never batted an eye at her husband Alexander Grant's very public affection for his childhood sweetheart, Olivia Brooks. Instead, Charlotte took it upon herself to look after the woman who truly held his heart.

That morning, she was up before dawn to cook. Olivia had come down with a sniffle, and Alexander had postponed critical duties at the Brigade to sit by her bedside. He'd given Charlotte strict instructions: three meals a day, delivered to the hospital without exception.

As Charlotte stepped out onto Elm Street, thermal container in hand, a morning haze still hung in the air.

"Off to the hospital again? For her?" Her neighbor, Sophia Hayes, clucked her tongue in disapproval, shifting her grocery bag. "I swear, you're the most patient woman I've ever met. Alexander treats that woman like royalty, and you don't even flinch. Now you're playing delivery girl. You need to grow a backbone, Charlotte."

Charlotte's gaze dropped to the pavement. "If I made a scene, he'd just get angry."

"So let him be angry! What's the worst he can do, divorce you?"

"Yes," Charlotte said, looking up with a soft, placid smile. "That's exactly what I'm afraid of."

Sophia's eyes went wide. "You're genuinely scared he'd leave you?"

"Of course," Charlotte replied, her voice clear and steady, though her eyes held no real feeling.

Sophia let out a heavy sigh, ready to argue further, but Charlotte just offered a graceful, final smile. "Thank you for your concern, Sophia. I know what I'm doing."

At the hospital, Charlotte walked the familiar hallway to the intensive care unit. She raised her hand to knock, but through the glass panel in the door, she saw it—the scene inside.

Alexander was seated by the bed, his uniform jacket slung over the chair. He was leaning close to a sleeping Olivia, his hand gently brushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead.

His expression was tender, a softness Charlotte had never seen directed at her. He bent down slowly, as if drawn to kiss her lips.

But he stopped himself at the last second.

Instead, he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead.

Standing frozen in the hallway, Charlotte felt a sharp, twisting sensation deep in her chest.

It wasn't jealousy. It was something far more profound.

She took a slow, deliberate breath, waited a moment to compose herself, and then knocked.

"Come in."

By the time she entered, Alexander was back to his usual cold composure, standing stiffly by the bed, his uniform impeccably pressed, his shirt buttoned to the top. The tender man from moments before had vanished completely.

"I brought soup," Charlotte said, placing the container on the bedside table, her voice even.

"Hmm," Alexander acknowledged with a curt nod. "Thanks."

His eyes then drifted to a corner where a wicker basket overflowed with soiled clothes. "Those are Olivia's things from the past few days. Take them home and hand-wash everything. Remember, her silk pajamas need cold water. Her wool sweaters can't be wrung out."

"I know," Charlotte said softly, hefting the heavy basket. "I did it the same way last time she was here."

She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.

"Don't bother with soup tomorrow. She's being discharged tonight."

Charlotte nodded. "Alright."

"She'll be recuperating at our house for a few days," he stated, his tone brooking no argument. "Get the guest room ready."

"Alright."

That word again. It was always her answer.

Three years of marriage, and her response was forever the same. Alexander's eyes lingered on her for a beat, but Charlotte was already walking out, her slim back straight as she carried the heavy load.

Back home, she soaked the clothes and meticulously prepared the guest room.

She changed the linens, lit scented candles to freshen the air, watered the plants on the windowsill, and mopped the floor until it shone. By the time she finished, night had fallen.

Remembering Alexander would be bringing Olivia home that evening, Charlotte tied on an apron and headed to the kitchen.

A pot of dried mushroom and beef soup—Olivia's favorite—simmered on the stove. Ginger toasts—specially requested by Alexander—were baking in the oven. She was in the middle of preparing a fat-free, salt-free green salad, because Olivia was always watching her figure.

Charlotte's hands moved on autopilot, her mind drifting back to the hospital.

Alexander leaning down. The way the sunlight had caught his profile—the sharp jaw, the high nose, the small, familiar mole near his eye.

He looked so much like Benjamin.

The phone's shrill ring shattered the silence.

She wiped her hands and answered it in the living room. "Hello?"

"Charlotte! It's Mr. Evans!" an excited, older voice exclaimed. "It's Benjamin! He's not dead! He's alive!"

Her grip on the receiver turned white-knuckled.

"He's at Seattle Medical Center right now! The doctors say he'll wake up in a few days! You need to come, and you need to come now!"

The phone slipped from her numb fingers and crashed to the floor.

Charlotte stood rooted to the spot, blood roaring in her ears, the world tilting on its axis.

Benjamin Stone wasn't dead.

The tiny, tinny voice from the fallen receiver kept talking, but the words were just noise.

"Hello? Charlotte? Are you there?"

It felt like an eternity before she bent down, her hand trembling, and picked up the receiver. "Alright. I'll… I'll finish up here and come right away."

When she hung up, a wave of pure, unadulterated euphoria washed over her.

Tears welled in her eyes as her gaze fell on the wedding photo hanging on the wall.

Alexander's cold, handsome profile was almost a perfect copy of Benjamin's.

Three years ago, Benjamin had been declared killed in action on a classified mission. His body was never recovered.

He was her first love, her childhood sweetheart, the man who had promised to marry her.