Claire Costa POV:

As I was sealing the last of Killian's boxes, my phone buzzed. It was my agent.

"Claire, I know it's last minute, but I have a job for you. A rush wedding shoot. The client is very high-profile and insisted on you specifically. The pay is... significant."

A wedding shoot. The irony was a physical blow, knocking the wind out of me. But the professional in me, the part of me that was still Claire Costa, photographer, took over.

"I'll do it," I said, my voice flat.

The location was a secluded estate in the Hudson Valley, a place of breathtaking natural beauty. We had shot our own engagement photos here. Elliot-the real Elliot-and I.

I remembered that day. The sun had filtered through the autumn leaves, casting a golden glow. He had held me, whispered promises in my ear, and looked at me with eyes I thought were full of love. Another perfect, fabricated memory.

I pushed the thought away, focusing my lens on the couple standing by the ancient oak tree.

"Hi, Claire! What a coincidence seeing you here."

I turned. It was Kassie, radiant in a designer wedding gown. And beside her, in a tailored black suit, was Elliot.

My Elliot. The real one.

His eyes met mine, and for a fraction of a second, they widened. A flicker of something-surprise? guilt?-crossed his face before it was smoothed over, replaced by his usual cool indifference. He looked away, his gaze settling on the horizon as if I were nothing more than a passing cloud.

Kassie beamed, holding out her phone. "We want the photos to have this kind of vibe," she said, showing me a gallery of pictures. "Just use these as a reference."

The photos were of them. In Paris, Rome, Tokyo. Laughing, kissing, wrapped in each other's arms. They were beautiful, intimate, and filled with a joy he had only ever pretended to feel with me.

Then I saw it. In the corner of a photo taken in front of the Eiffel Tower, a small, digital date stamp.

It was the same day I had shot our own wedding photos. While I was pledging my life to his brother, he was in Paris with her.

My throat went dry. My eyelashes fluttered, a desperate attempt to hold back the burn.

"Let's get this over with," Elliot said, his voice impatient.

I took a deep breath and raised my camera. "Of course."

A bitter smile touched my lips. It didn't matter anymore. After I filed the divorce papers, after I left for London, none of this would matter. They would just be ghosts in someone else's story.

The shoot wrapped up as dusk painted the sky in shades of purple and orange. Elliot went to get the car, leaving me alone with Kassie.

She walked over to me as I packed my equipment, her smile sharp and triumphant. "You know, Claire," she began, her voice dripping with false sympathy, "I almost feel sorry for you."

I didn't look at her. "I don't know what you're talking about."

She laughed, a high, tinkling sound that grated on my nerves. She pulled a platinum credit card from her tiny purse and held it out to me. "Don't play dumb. Elliot swapped places with Killian for me. So he could be with me without all the messy divorce drama. Killian was just… collateral damage. And you were the price he had to pay to keep his brother occupied."

Every word was a calculated strike.

"He was so miserable, having to pretend to be with you," she continued, her voice turning venomous. "But it was all for my happiness. This," she waved the credit card in my face, "is your compensation. For services rendered. For keeping Killian company."

She was paying me. Like a prostitute.

"Neither of them ever loved you, you know," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Elliot saw you as a sister. Killian just saw you as a prize to be won from his brother. Now, take the money and disappear. It's the least you can do."

My nails dug into my palms, the sharp pain a welcome anchor in the swirling vortex of my rage.

I finally looked at her, my eyes cold. "You want me to disappear? Fine. But you tell Elliot-the real Elliot-that I want him to show up at the courthouse himself. I want to divorce the man I actually married, not his stand-in."

I turned my back on her shocked face and walked away.

Halfway down the long, winding driveway, the sky opened up. Rain fell in cold, relentless sheets. I shielded my precious camera equipment with my body and ran, my dress soaked through, my hair plastered to my face.

By the time I reached the bottom of the hill, I was shivering, chilled to the bone.

A black sedan pulled up beside me. A man I didn't recognize got out, holding an umbrella. "Miss? You look like you could use a ride." He was kind, his eyes full of concern. He held out his coat.

As I reached for it, another hand shot out, grabbing my wrist.

I turned. It was Killian. His face was dark, his eyes stormy with an emotion I couldn't decipher.

"Who the hell is he?" he growled, his voice a low, furious rumble. He wasn't playing Elliot anymore. This was the real him.

I understood then. He wasn't worried about me. He was jealous.

I pulled my wrist from his grasp and laughed, a harsh, broken sound. "It doesn't matter who he is, Killian. He's not you. And he's not your brother. Right now, that's all I care about."

Claire Costa POV:

Killian opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it. The raw fury in his eyes was quickly masked, replaced by the familiar, gentle concern he' d been faking for years.

"I'm just worried about you, Claire," he said, modulating his voice to sound like Elliot's. "Let me take you home."

I ignored him completely. I turned to the kind stranger, offered him a small, grateful smile, and got into his car.

An hour later, I was back at the penthouse. I expected it to be empty, but Killian was there, pacing the living room like a caged animal. The moment I walked in, he rushed towards me, the frantic "Elliot" mask firmly in place.

"Claire, you're soaked! Are you okay? You must be freezing." He tried to touch my forehead, but I sidestepped him.

They were both such good actors. The thought was a dull, throbbing ache behind my eyes. The rain had given me a pounding headache.

"I'm fine," I said, my voice clipped. "I'm going to take a shower."

I walked past him and headed for the stairs.

"Wait," he called out from behind me. "Your clothes… I've never seen you wear that style before."

I paused, my hand on the railing. He was right. Elliot had a specific taste. He preferred me in soft pastels and classic, elegant silhouettes. The simple, dark dress I had worn for the shoot today was my own choice, a small act of rebellion I hadn't even been conscious of.

A bitter smile twisted my lips. "I guess I'm trying new things," I said over my shoulder, and continued up the stairs.

I soaked in a scalding hot bath for half an hour, letting the steam and the heat seep into my bones, trying to wash away the chill of the day, the chill of the last three years. When I stepped out of the bathroom, Killian was gone. A glass of water and a small note sat on the nightstand.

Had to step out for an urgent business matter. Rest well. - E

He was still signing his notes as Elliot. The charade was exhausting. I crumpled the note and tossed it in the trash.

I opened my laptop and sent the photos from the day's shoot to my assistant. She replied almost immediately.

These are brilliant, Claire! Just a reminder, your flight to London for the fellowship is in three days. Everything is booked.

Three days. I was about to check the status of my divorce filing when another message popped up on my phone. It was from the court.

Your certificate of legal separation has been generated. It will be available for pickup in three days.

Three days. The timing was perfect. A wave of relief, so profound it was almost dizzying, washed over me.

I'll be there, I typed back to my assistant.

I took a fever reducer for my headache and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next morning, I went downstairs to find a scene straight out of a bizarre sitcom. Elliot and Killian were both in the kitchen, fussing over Kassie, who was draped dramatically over a chaise lounge in the living room, a cold compress on her forehead.

"Here, drink this ginger tea," Elliot was saying, his voice laced with concern.

"No, this porridge is better for an upset stomach," Killian argued, holding out a bowl.

They were like two peacocks displaying their feathers for the same peahen. It would have been comical if it wasn't so pathetic.

Killian saw me first. He immediately dropped the porridge act and rushed to my side, grabbing my hand. "Claire! How are you feeling? You were so tired yesterday." He was back to being Elliot, the devoted husband.

I saw the real Elliot's gaze flicker towards Killian's hand on mine, his jaw tightening for a split second. Then his expression went smooth again.

"Kassie and I have booked a group trip to a private island resort," Elliot announced, his voice casual. "To celebrate my… our anniversary. We leave the day after tomorrow. You should come, Claire. It will be fun."

Kassie chimed in from the lounge, her voice syrupy sweet. "Yes, do come! We'll go snorkeling and have cocktails on the beach. It will be a lovely little family vacation."

The three of them chattered on about the itinerary, their voices a meaningless buzz in my ears. I felt like a ghost in my own home, an observer to a life that was no longer mine.

But I didn't feel sad. I didn't feel anything at all.

I just nodded, a faint smile on my lips. Two more days, I thought. In two days, I would have my divorce certificate. Their trip was the perfect cover.

Let them have their island. I was going to London.

This wasn't an escape. It was a perfectly executed breakout.

Killian Callahan POV:

The hum of the private jet was a dull roar in my ears. I leaned my head back against the plush leather seat and closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. An unfamiliar emptiness gnawed at me from the inside.

A picture of Claire flashed in my mind. Her face at the airport this morning. She' d hugged me goodbye, a quick, almost formal embrace. She' d smiled, but it hadn't reached her eyes. Her green eyes, usually so full of life, had been distant. There was a loneliness in her smile that made my chest tighten.

A sudden, suffocating pressure built in my lungs. She was just putting on a show, I told myself. She was mad about the whole swap, about Kassie. But she' d get over it. She always did.

Kassie was asleep in one of the private cabins. I leaned across the aisle towards my brother.

"Hey," I said, my voice low. "Send Claire a text."

Elliot didn't look up from his tablet. "Why?"

"I don't know," I mumbled, "Just… she looked upset this morning. She's probably just sulking. You know how she gets. Send her something sweet. It always works."

Elliot finally looked at me, his gaze cool and assessing. He didn't move.

The unease in my gut intensified. Screw it. I pulled out my own phone-the one I used as Killian-and typed out a quick message. Thinking of you.

I hit send. A red notification popped up instantly. Message failed to send. This user has blocked you.

Blocked me?

I snatched Elliot' s phone from the table beside him. "What's her number on this?"

I typed it in, sent the same message. The same red notification. Blocked. She had blocked both of us.

Just then, my own phone buzzed. A screenshot from one of my idiot friends in our group chat.

My blood ran cold.

It was a post from Claire's Instagram. A picture of a crisp, official-looking document. A certificate of legal separation. And below it, a single, stark sentence: Finally free. Next stop, London.

"What the hell is this?" Elliot' s voice was a low growl. He had seen the message over my shoulder. His hand shot out, grabbing the phone. His knuckles were white.

"She's just being dramatic," I said, forcing a laugh, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. "She does this. Gets a fake divorce certificate online to scare you. She'll be back at the penthouse, waiting for you to come home and beg for forgiveness."

"Shut up, Killian," Elliot snapped, his voice tight with a frustration I hadn't heard in years. He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair.

I watched him, a slow, mocking smile spreading across my face. "What's the matter, brother? Losing control?"

The air between us crackled with tension.

He took a deep breath, the perfect CEO regaining his composure. "Fine. When we land, I'll buy her that Birkin bag she wanted. That should smooth things over."

"You don't know how to handle her," I sneered, enjoying the flicker of irritation in his eyes. "Let me call her. I know what to say."

I held out my hand for his phone. He hesitated.

"Give it to me," I taunted. "You've been playing house with Kassie for so long, you've forgotten how your own wife works. But I haven't. For the past three years, she's been warming my bed. I know every inch of her. I know what makes her tick."

A muscle jumped in Elliot's jaw. The air grew thick with a pain so sharp it felt like my own. He was hurt. Good.

He shoved the phone into my hand. "Don't cross the line, Killian."

I ignored him, my fingers flying across the screen, dialing a number I knew by heart.

The call connected. A cold, robotic voice answered. "The number you have dialed is no longer in service."

The phone felt like a block of ice in my hand. No longer in service. She hadn't just blocked us. She had erased us.

The casual confidence drained out of me, replaced by a surge of raw, animalistic panic. The veins on my temples throbbed. She was really gone.

Just then, Kassie emerged from the cabin, holding two cups of coffee. "Here you go, boys! Lighten up. We're on vacation!"

She placed a cup in front of me and one in front of Elliot. He took his with a curt nod. Kassie pouted, sitting beside him. "Elliot, you promised you'd pay attention to me on this trip."

He didn't reply, just draped a blanket over her shoulders. "Rest, Kassie."

She beamed, snuggling into his side.

I stared at the cup in front of me. The latte art was a lopsided, ugly smear. It was nothing like the perfect little hearts Claire used to make.

I remembered the first time she' d tried, her face smudged with cocoa powder, her eyes shining with excitement as she presented me-pretending to be Elliot-with her creation. "It has lavender in it!" she'd announced proudly. "For relaxation!"

It had tasted awful.

But I drank every last drop.

Then I remembered him, my goddamn brother, storming in, seeing the cup, and sneering. "What is this garbage?" He'd knocked it out of my hand, the hot liquid splashing across the floor. Claire had flinched, her bright expression crumbling. She had looked so small, so hurt, hiding behind me, tugging on my sleeve. "Elliot," she'd whispered, looking for protection.

And I, playing the part, had been her protector.

A faint smile touched my lips at the memory. But then I looked at the cold, ugly coffee in front of me, and the smile vanished. The emptiness in my chest yawned into a chasm.