Secretly Glorious: The Wife With A Thousand Masks

The island was completely deserted.

Rain fell in blinding sheets, striking like bullets, while waves battered the rocks with the heavy, rhythmic thud of war drums.

Kneeling in the downpour, Arielle Moore painstakingly whittled a piece of wood with a dagger. Water streamed down her face, but she barely seemed to notice.

Ten years. It had been ten long years since she'd lost all contact with her family.

And just when she had finally tracked down the Southalls-just as she was closing in on the truth behind her mother's death and her own kidnapping-the very people who claimed they were "bringing her home" had tried to kill her instead.

She had survived.

They had not.

But the ship had sunk, leaving her washed ashore on this godforsaken island.

Seven days had passed since then. No sign of life. Not a single boat on the horizon.

Fortunately, the island provided just enough to survive: wood, foraging, and the raw strength to begin building a makeshift raft. She had barely started carving the oars when the sky unleashed its fury.

Standing up to stretch her aching muscles, her gaze caught a dark shape slumped near the rocks.

Her chest tightened.

She approached cautiously-and found a man.

His face, striking and almost unreally handsome, was deathly pale. A gaping wound at his waist leaked dark blood, swirling into the saltwater like a grim, bloody sunset.

Arielle pressed two fingers just beneath his nose. Still breathing. Without hesitation, she grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged his dead weight toward the cave she'd been using for the past few nights.

She got a small fire going, then ventured back out into the pouring rain to forage for herbs.

Returning soaked to the bone, she murmured as she crushed the herbs against a stone, "You're lucky you ran into me."

Wasting no time, she reached down to strip off his shirt. A quick glance confirmed her fears: the gash was deep, likely causing internal damage.

Her hand moved to his neck to check his pulse, but an icy hand suddenly clamped down over hers.

"Who are you?"

His voice was barely a rasp, but his grip was like iron.

Arielle met his gaze, her expression hardening. "Your savior. And if you don't let go of me right now, I'm going to have to dig you a grave. 'Here lies John Doe.' Does that work for you?"

The man frowned, saying nothing. His eyes slid to the crushed herbs in her hand.

"What are you waiting for? Take off your shirt so I can help you."

She reached out again, but he batted her hand away.

"I'll do it."

His sharp, defensive tone brought a faint smirk to Arielle's lips. The man slowly unbuttoned his soaked shirt, his dark, suspicious eyes never leaving her for a second.

When the fabric finally fell away, Arielle froze.

In the flickering firelight, his sculpted torso was on full display-a perfect eight-pack, complete with a sharp V-line that dipped dangerously low beneath his belt.

Damn. This guy's body was practically a crime.

She swallowed hard, her cheeks flushing slightly as she pressed the poultice to his wound.

"What is that?" he asked, his deep voice entirely devoid of emotion.

"Antiseptic herbs. They'll stop the bleeding."

"Where am I?"

Her initial intimidation fading, Arielle looked up at him, exasperated by the interrogation.

"If I knew where we were, do you think I'd have been stuck here for seven days? Save your breath and rest."

"That is no way for a doctor to speak to a patient," he muttered.

"Excuse me?" she shot back, incredulous. "Is that how a dying man speaks to the person keeping him breathing?"

Their gazes locked, sharp and unyielding.

"You're insolent."

"And you're an ass."

Silence fell over the cave, thick with tension.

The flames crackled between them, casting flickering shadows over two wary souls-and a storm ready to break.

Finally, Arielle relented.

There was no point wasting energy arguing with a half-dead man. She straightened up, her tone flattening out.

"The rain isn't letting up. It's going to get even colder tonight, so I need to build up the fire. Don't move."

She turned toward the corner of the cave, but the man's deep voice rang out behind her.

"Hey."

"What now?" she sighed, glancing back. "If I don't get this fire going, we're both going to freeze before dawn."

He opened his mouth, hesitated, then finally muttered, "Nothing."

Arielle rolled her eyes and got back to work.

On this damp rock, there was only one way to make a fire: friction.

After more than an hour of grueling effort, a tiny ember finally sparked to life.

But a sudden gust of wind swept into the cave, snuffing out the fragile flame before it could catch.

"Hey," the man said again.

"What?!" she snapped, thoroughly exasperated.

At that exact moment, a metallic clink echoed against the stone floor. Arielle looked down. A silver lighter lay at her feet.

"Huh?"

Three seconds of heavy silence passed. Then, she exploded.

"You jerk! Are you messing with me?!"

The injured man simply closed his eyes, a faint, mocking smile touching his lips.

Night fell, heavy and biting cold.

They slept on opposite sides of the cave.

In the middle of the night, low groans jolted Arielle awake.

She opened her eyes and peered at the man. His face was deathly pale and slick with sweat. He was curled into himself, shivering violently.

"Hey, idiot... are you okay?"

She prodded his shoulder, but he didn't react.

Panic spiking, she pressed her palm against his forehead. He was burning up.

His wound was infected.

Two amoxicillin pills would have been enough to fix this. But out here? She might as well pray for a miracle.

With no other options, Arielle did the only thing she could think of: she stripped off his clothes to try and bring his fever down.

But soon, his shivering worsened, his cracked lips murmuring weakly about the cold.

She dragged him closer to the fire, but it wasn't enough.

"Damn it..."

Making a split-second decision, she stripped off her own shirt, pressed herself against his bare chest, and wrapped her arms tightly around him to share her body heat.

She didn't care how insufferable the guy was. She was not letting him die. Saving a life was good karma. Maybe God would let her uncover the truth about her mother in exchange.

Her thoughts drifted back to the Southalls.

If the people who claimed they were bringing her home actually wanted her dead, then something was seriously wrong.

And if her father was the one behind it, she'd never forgive him.

Huddled against the burning skin of the stranger, Arielle finally succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep.

When she woke, voices were echoing outside the cave. Heavy footsteps.

She sprang up.

People? Here?

Her gaze dropped. The man's jacket had been draped over her shoulders.

But the man himself was gone.

Quickly throwing her clothes back on, she crept cautiously toward the cave entrance.

What if it was them? The ones who tried to kill her?

They certainly didn't waste any time...

But as she peeked out, the sight before her froze her in her tracks.

A line of bodyguards dressed in sharp black suits stood at attention. Further down the beach, a sleek helicopter waited on the sand.

Their leader was speaking respectfully to the man she had saved.

At that moment, the man turned around.

For the first time, Arielle saw his face clearly in the morning light.

He was still devastatingly handsome, but now, he was downright intimidating. His deathly pallor had faded. He stood tall, radiating an icy, untouchable presence.

He recovered fast.

"You-" she began.

He cut her off, his expression completely impassive. "What do you want?"

"Excuse me?"

"You saved my life. I can grant you one wish."

Arielle stared at him, dumbfounded.

"Seriously? Not even a 'thank you'?"

The guards whipped their heads around to stare at her in sheer astonishment, as if she had just committed blasphemy.

The man's expression didn't so much as twitch. "You will regret passing up this chance."

She fumed inwardly, but forced herself to be practical.

Her little raft was never going to make it to the mainland.

Through gritted teeth, she blurted out, "Take me home."

The man's gaze flickered with faint surprise.

"That's it?"

"What else would I want? I just want off this cursed island."

He looked her up and down as if she were an absolute idiot, then turned on his heel and strode toward the helicopter.

Three hours later, the aircraft was flying over Jadeborough.

"Is this the place?" he asked, gesturing to the sprawling manor below.

"I think so, yes," Arielle murmured.

She had few memories of her childhood, but she had done her homework before making her return.

This estate had once belonged to the Moores.

Now, it was the property of the man who hadn't bothered to look for her during her entire ten-year disappearance: her father.

"Take us down," the man ordered.

The pilot nodded immediately.

"Right away, sir."