His Wife by Mistake

Chapter 5: The Man Behind the Mask

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

Not tonight. Not in this world.

Not when people thought Aeron Vale was locked up in his glass tower, dictating company futures and sipping imported silence.

But here he was—beneath the city that worshipped his name by day, masked and free in the tunnels it forgot by night.

Where no one called him “Mr. Vale.”

Where no one knew his name at all.

He leaned against his car—a matte black McLaren 720S with chrome red accents, purring like a caged beast ready to be unleashed. His face was half-covered with a sleek, custom-cut obsidian mask streaked with a jagged crimson slash, nothing else—no logos, no nameplate—just silent menace. No helmet. No rules. Just him.

VAL3.

Whispers of that name buzzed like static among the crowd: the underground racing legend, the phantom who never lost.

Above them, graffiti-covered concrete dripped moisture. Neon lights reflected off slick asphalt in hues of green, pink, and cyan. Smoke curled from the burning oil drums that lined the track. Music blasted somewhere deep in the tunnels—trap beats pulsing through cracked speakers—and the crowd was alive.

New York’s underbelly had never looked so electric.

Women leaned against chrome cars, phones recording. Men exchanged money in folded bills. Glow sticks. Electric signs. Raw energy.

This was his playground.

Aeron stood still, like carved obsidian. The kind of stillness that made people nervous.

Control wrapped in chaos.

Next to him, Rafe Morales—tattooed, grinning, and always talking—popped the stem of a cherry lollipop into his mouth.

“Still got that ‘I might kill someone or win a race’ energy,” he said, side-eying his best friend.

“I might do both,” Aeron murmured, voice calm and surgical.

“Seriously, bro. Normal CEOs do yoga or microdose mushroom tea. You—” Rafe waved at the chaos in front of them, “you start underground riots with your exhaust pipe.”

“I don’t do normal.”

Rafe laughed. “Yeah, I figured that the day you outran a cop car in reverse.”

At the far end of the track, the new challenger emerged—stocky guy, veiny arms, metal studs glinting on both ears. His Dodge Charger was revving loud, engine practically foaming.

“Name’s Viper. Thinks you’re a myth. Came here to ‘end you,’” Rafe said with air quotes.

Aeron’s gloves tightened.

He slipped into the McLaren—graceful, quiet.

And then, everything exploded.

---

Countdown.

Three.
Two.
One—

Go.

Tires screamed. Lights blurred. Engines roared.

And the crowd?

The crowd went feral.

“GOOOO, VAL3!”

“EAT HIM, VAL!”

Smoke swallowed the first turn. The McLaren glided through like black lightning, leaving the Charger in his exhaust’s ashes. The Mustang and BMW tried to catch up, bouncing off each other.

Aeron barely blinked. Left. Right. Drift. Pulse = precision.

Every inch of him was alive. Present.

The underpass roared like a beast’s stomach. Glimpses of painted flames, LED strips, rusted fire barrels, and cheering fans flashed by. Neon signs reflected off his windshield—Live Fast, Die Unknown, Speed Kills, So Drive Like a Killer.

The Charger clawed up beside him—tried to edge him into a wall.

Aeron let him.

Trap baited.

Click. Shift. Tap. Drift. Gone.

The Charger skidded, metal biting concrete.

Aeron surged ahead, weaving between the others. The Mustang clipped the wall. The BMW tried to swing high—failed.

VAL3 vanished through the final stretch like he’d ripped open the tunnel himself.

The crowd screamed as his McLaren flew across the finish line.

Winner. Again.

---

This time, Aeron didn’t just park.

He let the engine scream a little longer. Tires hissed. Exhaust spit fire.

Then he stepped out, pulling off the gloves and mask—not in a rush, but like a king removing his crown.

The underground crowd—drunk on speed and danger—lost it.

“VAL3! HE’S UNREAL!”

“HE’S NOT HUMAN—HE’S CARNAGE IN BLACK!”

Someone tossed confetti from a catwalk above. Lights flickered like strobes. Girls rushed toward the barrier. His name echoed like a war chant.

And Aeron?

For once…

He smiled.

Really smiled.

It wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t professional. It wasn’t polite.

It was joy. The raw, childish, untamed joy of being free.

Rafe clapped his hands slowly, mock applause. “Well damn. That Charger got smoked like a cigarette.”

Aeron chuckled—chuckled, not just a breath.

“I could do this all night.”

“Yeah, because you’ve got no real competition.”

A beat.

Rafe took another swig of soda, eyebrows raised. “You’ve been quiet for a full five minutes. That’s terrifying. Who’s haunting your brain now?”

Aeron didn’t bother answering.

Rafe chuckled, tapping his can against the crate between them. “Still thinking about her?”

Aeron looked away, jaw flexing. “She’s... different.”

Rafe’s grin curved knowingly. “Speaks her mind, doesn’t fake a thing, and wears her heart on her sleeve—yeah. She reminds me of someone.”

Aeron raised a brow.

“You,” Rafe said, like it was obvious.“She reminds me of you. Back when you didn’t overthink everything and didn’t live like a CEO with a quarterly report for a brain... Before all the suits and secrets.”

That caught Aeron off guard. Just a flicker. But it was enough.

His gaze drifted over the crowd—flashing neon, roaring engines, strangers who only knew him as the masked king of the underground track. They didn’t know his name. His story. His silence. And that’s exactly why he came here.

Because here, he was real.

Once, not long ago, he’d lived like that all the time. Reckless. Wild. Unapologetically himself. No boardrooms. No legacy. No expectations.

“She reminds me...” he began, voice almost lost to the roar of an engine.

Rafe leaned in. “Of?”

A pause. Then Aeron spoke, quieter now. “She reminds me of who I used to be. Before the rules. Before the silence. When I still believed I didn’t owe anyone anything—not even explanations.”

Rafe blinked. “Well, damn.”

“She’s not trying to impress anyone,” Aeron added, eyes narrowing. “Just survive. Be heard. Be seen. That used to be me.”

Rafe whistled low. “That’s deep. Are we racing or soul-searching tonight?”

Aeron gave him a sideways glance.

Then smirked.

“She’ll either surprise me,” he said, climbing into the sleek black McLaren, “or destroy everything.”

“And you’re okay with either?”

Aeron’s mask slid back over his face, voice like steel behind it.

“I’m just not bored.”

Then he revved the engine.

And vanished into the chaos.

Chapter 4: Fire Games and Frozen Words

 Chapter 1: Click here