Page 5 of The Temporary Wife

Gianna

T hree boxes of my belongings sat in Colby’s living room like evidence of a crime I hadn’t yet committed. I stared at them from the kitchen doorway, coffee mug trembling in my hands as the reality of what I’d agreed to settled over me.

We’d been married for exactly four hours.

A quick ceremony at the courthouse with Cory and Summer as witnesses, Luca bouncing on his toes in his best shirt, and Judge Morrison’s kind smile as he pronounced us husband and wife.

Colby had kissed me afterward. It was a brief, soft press of lips that tasted like mint and promises we couldn’t keep.

Now I was officially Mrs. Marshall, and my stomach churned with terror and something dangerously close to joy.

“The movers said they’d bring the rest tomorrow,” Colby said, appearing beside me with his own cup of coffee.

He’d changed from his courthouse clothes into worn jeans and a flannel shirt, looking more like the man I’d known for three years and less like the stranger who’d slipped a simple gold band onto my finger four hours ago.

“This is plenty for now.” I gestured at the boxes with my free hand. “Most of my furniture won’t fit anyway.”

His house was bigger than my apartment above the flower shop, but it was undeniably his space. Masculine furniture, neutral colors, everything practical and sturdy. The only touches of warmth came from Luca’s artwork covering the refrigerator and the family photos scattered throughout the rooms.

“We can rearrange things. Make room for whatever you want to bring.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. The kindness in his tone made this harder somehow. If he’d been cold or businesslike about the arrangement, I could have treated it like any other contract. But he was being gentle with me, careful, like he understood what this was costing me emotionally.

“Miss G?” Luca’s voice carried from the living room, followed by the sound of something crashing to the floor.

We both turned toward the sound. I set my coffee down and hurried to find him kneeling beside a fallen lamp, looking mortified. The ceramic base had cracked but hadn’t shattered completely, and the shade sat askew but intact.

“I knocked it over,” he said, his bottom lip trembling. “I was trying to move this box so I could set up my cars, and I bumped into it. I’m sorry!”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I said automatically, crouching down to help him. “Accidents happen.”

“But I broke it. Dad’s gonna be mad.”

“No one’s mad,” Colby said gently, appearing beside us. “It’s just a lamp, buddy. We can fix it.”

Luca looked between us anxiously. “Are you sure?”

“Very sure,” I confirmed, reaching out to smooth his hair. “These things happen when we’re moving boxes around. No big deal.”

His face brightened immediately. Six-year-olds were remarkably resilient when they knew they weren’t in trouble. “Can I help fix it?”

“Absolutely,” Colby said. “But first, why don’t you tell Miss G about the new cars you added to your collection? I bet she’d like to see them.”

As Luca launched into an enthusiastic explanation of the new toy cars and trucks, carefully arranging them on the coffee table for my inspection, I felt something fundamental shift inside my chest. This wasn’t pretend anymore.

This wasn’t about helping Colby or stopping Lyla or maintaining a facade.

This was about love. Pure, unconditional, terrifying love for a child who deserved stability and a father who would do anything to protect him.

“This one’s my favorite. Mr. Henderson gave it to me the other day,” Luca said, holding up a red fire truck. “It has a real ladder that goes up and down. Want to see?”

“I’d love to see,” I said, settling cross-legged on the floor beside him.

For the next hour, we played with cars and built elaborate roads out of couch cushions.

Luca chattered about school and his friends and his upcoming soccer game, completely at ease with the changes in his world.

To him, this was simple: Miss G was moving in, which meant more people to play with and help with homework.

When it was time for dinner, we ordered pizza and ate it cross-legged on the living room floor while Luca demonstrated his favorite video games.

He was patient with my fumbling attempts at the controller, cheering when I managed to make my character jump successfully and offering gentle corrections when I forgot which button did what.

Colby watched us with that same unreadable expression, occasionally joining the conversation but mostly content to observe. I wondered what he was thinking, whether he regretted asking me to do this, whether seeing us together felt as natural to him as it did to me.

By eight o’clock, Luca was yawning despite his protests that he wasn’t tired.

Colby carried him upstairs for his bath while I cleaned up the pizza boxes and tried to process everything that had happened in one day.

This morning I’d been Gianna Stapleton, single florist with a tidy apartment and a carefully ordered life.

Tonight, I was Mrs. Gianna Marshall, stepmother to a six-year-old who’d claimed my heart completely.

“He wants you to read to him,” Colby said when he came back downstairs. “If you’re up for it.”

“Of course.”

I found Luca in his pajamas, teeth brushed, and hair still damp from his bath. His room blended little boy chaos with parental organization with toys scattered across the floor, but clothes folded neatly on his dresser, superhero posters on the walls but books lined up carefully on his bookshelf.

“Which one tonight?” I asked, settling beside him on his bed.

Luca handed me a worn copy of a book about a bear who went on adventures with his forest friends.

I’d read it to him dozens of times before during sleepovers and sick days, but tonight felt different.

Tonight, I was reading as part of his family, in the house where we all lived together, as part of the bedtime routine that would be mine to share from now on.

“Miss G?” His voice was sleepy, content. “Can I call you mom?”

My heart seized as had my breath. There’d been a handful of times over the years when he’d slipped and called me mom. I brushed it off, never making a big deal about it.

This was different.

I wanted to tell him no because there would be a day in the near future when I wouldn’t be his mom, but he would never understand.

He shouldn’t have to understand.

What a mistake this was.

Instead, I nodded. Unable to use my voice out of fear. Out of weakness.

“Mom,” he said trying it out. I looked at him, my eyes watered from love and sadness. I loved this little boy more than anything. “Hmm?”

“I’m glad you’re living here now. It feels more like I have a real family now.”

My throat tightened. “What makes it feel like a real family?”

He considered this seriously, snuggling deeper into his blankets. “Well, you and Dad both take care of me. And you make breakfast sometimes, and you know how I like my sandwiches cut. And you laugh at my jokes even when they’re not very funny.”

“Your jokes are always funny to me.”

“And now I don’t have to wonder if you’re going to come back the next day. You’ll just be here.”

The innocent observation pierced straight through my chest. How many mornings had he woken up hoping to find his world unchanged, only to discover another person had left? His mother had walked away from him. Even babysitters changed with Colby’s work schedule.

“I’ll be here,” I promised, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “For as long as you want me to be.”

He was asleep before I finished the story, one small hand curled around my wrist like he was afraid I might disappear if he let go. I sat there for a long time, watching him breathe and marveling at how completely my life had changed in the span of a single day.

When I finally crept downstairs, I found Colby in the kitchen loading the dishwasher.

He’d changed into a gray t-shirt that clung to his shoulders and emphasized the strength in his arms. Domestic Colby had always been dangerous to my peace of mind, but married Colby was going to be the death of me.

“He go down okay?” he asked without looking up.

“Like a light. He’s exhausted.” I pushed my hands into the soap water and handed Colby another dish. “He asked to call me mom.”

Colby paused; his hand suspended in the air. Slowly, I looked at him, unsure what to expectant.

“What did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything but nodded because I had this giant lump clogging my throat. You know he’s slipped up a few times before, and I guess I should’ve asked you?—”

“You don’t need to ask me,” he said. “You’re here more than Lyla is. I’ve said it time and again, Luca loves you and if he wants to call you mom, let him. As long as you’re okay with it.”

I was, but then . . .

“Yeah.” I leaned against the counter, suddenly unsure of my place in this space that was now supposedly mine.

“We should talk about the sleeping arrangements . . .” I needed to change the subject, although I should’ve chosen something like the parking arrangement outside or whether he needed me to pick Luca up from school tomorrow.

He closed the dishwasher and turned to face me. “I know we need to talk about the practical stuff. Ground rules, expectations, how we make this work.”

“How do we make this believable?”

“We’ll need to act like a married couple when it matters. In public, around Luca, if anyone asks questions.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking as uncertain as I felt. “But in private, we can maintain whatever boundaries make you comfortable.”

“What about sharing a bedroom? Luca will expect?—”

“Only if you’re okay with it. Everything else, we’ll figure out on the fly as long as we look convincing when it needs to be, keep things separate when it doesn’t.”

I nodded, but something twisted in my chest at how easily he compartmentalized it. Of course, he could separate the performance from reality. This wasn’t about feelings for him. This was about custody and stability and legal strategy.

“I should probably get some sleep,” I said finally. “Tomorrow’s going to be another adjustment day.”

Colby nodded and followed me upstairs. I thought about his bedroom, the masculine space that would now technically be ours. The walk-in closet and king-sized bed he’d built custom, and the deep garden tub he’d installed after he and Lyla bought the house.

We stood in his . . . our room, staring at nothing, yet everything.

“We’re both adults. We can share a room without it meaning anything.” The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, but he nodded like it made perfect sense.

“I’ll take the left side. I’m used to sleeping there.”

“Fine.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Good to know.”

“Do you?”

“Not that anyone’s ever complained about.”

The awkward conversation felt surreal. Planning sleeping arrangements with the man I’d married that morning, the man I’d been in love with for years, the man who saw me as a convenient solution to his custody problems.

“Okay, I have a few things to finish up in the workshop and then I’ll be up.”

I could feel the silence of the room weighing on me heavily, making my skin crawl, but not with fear. It was anxiety. A nervousness I had never experienced before. I’d fallen asleep on Colby’s couch too many times to count. We both have. But this was different.

Ten minutes later, I emerged from the attached bathroom wearing one of my most conservative pajama sets and clutching my phone like a lifeline. The room suddenly felt huge, overwhelming, and oddly intimate. Colby’s presence filled the void even though he was still downstairs.

When he finally came up, he moved quietly through his nighttime routine, and I kept my eyes fixed on my phone screen while he changed into pajama pants and a worn t-shirt. The mattress dipped when he climbed into bed, and suddenly the king-size bed felt impossibly small.

“Goodnight, Gianna,” he said quietly, reaching over to turn off the lamp.

“Goodnight.”

The darkness felt heavy and charged with possibility. I lay there listening to his breathing slow and even out, counting the inches between us and wondering how I was going to survive months of this exquisite torture.

This was what I’d agreed to. This was the price of keeping Luca safe and Colby’s family intact. But as I finally drifted toward sleep, with my husband’s wedding ring on my finger and his child calling me family, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was in far deeper than either of us had planned.