When my dad died, my husband was at the airport—picking up another girl.

She looked like me. Only difference? He actually loved her.

I was just the stand-in.

Three years of marriage? It cost me my dad... and every last shred of self-respect.

But at least I finally saw him for who he was.

I left the country in a soaked dress.

That's when it hit him—what it really meant to lose.

"Emily, I was wrong!"

"Daniel Wilson, it's too late."

Stand-ins don't get love.

They get a new beginning.

I spent three years as Daniel Wilson's stand-in for his first love.

Swallowed every insult. Every lie. My dad died because of him.

And still, it took me walking away in a soaked dress for that cold-hearted Wall Street king to realize...

He'd never loved her.

He'd loved me.

***

Dad died while Daniel was at the airport—picking up another girl.

"Dad..." I dropped to my knees by the bed, vision swimming. His hand was still gripping mine, cold but firm, like he had more to say.

Right then, it hit me—I was done.

One month. That's all I gave myself. Bury my dad. Collect every receipt, every dirty secret. Then I'd be gone.

My phone wouldn't shut up—more calls from the hospital. The $300K surgery drained me. I even sold Dad's favorite vintage car.

But Daniel? "The company's tight on cash. Two days."

Two days. Dad didn't have two days.

I called. Hands shaking. It rang forever before he finally picked up. I could hear the airport in the background.

"What is it? I'm busy."

"My dad's gone." My voice cracked. "Can you come back?"

Silence.

"I'm in London. Business trip. Handle it. I'll wire the money."

"But you're at—"

Click. Call ended.

I stared at the screen. His location from thirty minutes ago? JFK International.

He lied. Why?

A nurse walked in. "Please handle the post-death formalities."

Buzz. A text from Daniel's assistant:

[Mrs. Wilson, Mr. Wilson asked me to inform you there are important guests tonight. Please prepare dinner before eight.]

Important guests.

I looked at Dad's lifeless face. The weight of it all finally dropped.

I went through the motions, numb. Back at the house, I opened the door—and froze.

Laughter. A woman's.

"Daniel, this place is gorgeous—it's just like my villa in Switzerland."

"I modeled it after your style."

His voice—soft. Too soft.

In the living room, she was draped all over him. That profile—way too familiar.

She must've felt me staring, because she turned.

And my stomach dropped.

That face looked so close to mine—just with more flirt and less frost.

"You must be Emily," she said, eyes scanning me. "Tsk. The resemblance is wild."

"Sophie, don't," Daniel muttered. His eyes never left hers.

Sophie.

Sophie Montrose.

Finally had the name. The girl from his secret photo album in the safe—every page, her face.

I was just the stand-in.

"I'll make dinner," I said, eyes low.

"No need." Daniel's voice turned ice. "Sophie hates the smell of cooking. I ordered in. Get the room ready—she's staying."

"Which room?"

"Yours," he said, like it was nothing. "You'll move to the guest room."

My hands trembled. The room I'd lived in for three years—handed off like it meant nothing. Because it never really did.

Lavender curtains. French vanity. That stupid lavender diffuser on the nightstand.

I'm allergic to lavender. Daniel never noticed.

Sophie leaned on the doorframe, fingering her diamond necklace. "Heard about your dad. That's rough. But maybe it's for the best. Daniel said those bills were insane. Now we had enough left for this necklace."

I laughed, even as the tears came.

The money that could've saved my dad?

Now hanging off her neck.

That night, I sat alone in the guest room, wide awake, listening to them hook up across the hall. Every creak, every laugh—burned.

I started scrolling through old photos and landed on one from three years ago, right after graduating Parsons. That night at the charity auction was when I met Daniel.

He bought every piece I showed and said, "There's something special in your work. It reminds me of someone I once knew."

Yeah. That someone? Sophie.

At 3 a.m., a message popped up from Dad's doctor:

[Ms. Egerton, there's something you need to know. Your father actually had a strong chance of surviving the surgery. But the day before, someone canceled the specialist consultation and delayed the operation. He claimed to be your husband.]

My phone slipped out of my hand. Just—thudded onto the floor.

Dad didn't just die.

It was planned.

Daniel knew Sophie was coming back. He stalled the surgery on purpose—so I'd be too broken to fight her moving in. To keep his so-called soulmate happy, he let my dad die.

Just before sunrise, I heard their door creak. Daniel stepped out, spotted me, and froze.

"You're still up?"

His robe was loose, lips marked up like a crime scene.

"Daniel Wilson." I didn't blink. "Did you delay my father's surgery?"

His face twitched, then went blank. "The doctor said the odds were low. I just wanted a better specialist."

"But he died." I stood. "While you were busy picking Sophie up from the airport."

"That was an accident," he snapped. "I'll compensate you."

"Compensate me? You think cash fixes dead?"

I walked back to the guest room.

Time to leave.

Three years in that house, and nothing felt like mine. A few clothes, some paint, and what little I had of Dad.

By dawn, I was packed and in the living room.

Sophie waltzed out of the master bedroom—wearing my pajamas. She spotted the suitcase and smirked.

"You're leaving? Daniel didn't say you could."

Didn't answer. Just headed for the door.

"Stop," Daniel barked. "Did I say you could go?"

I turned and actually saw him for the first time.

Handsome. Empty. Cruel. Full of himself.

This was the guy I wasted three years on. The one who watched my father die so his ex could move in.

"Remember this," I said, voice sharp. "You're the one who shoved me out."

Then I left.

Behind me, Sophie laughed. "She's got a temper. Good. Saves us the trouble."

Daniel stayed quiet.

Didn't chase me.

Didn't care.

To him, I was just a placeholder. And I was done.

I planned Dad's funeral by myself.

Daniel didn't show. Said he had a board meeting.

Funny thing though—during the service, his Insta updated. New post: him and Sophie shopping on Fifth Avenue, all smiles.

"Poor Emily, married to a man like that," someone whispered behind me.

I just stood there, silent, staring at the altar.

After the service, I had to go back to the house. Some of Dad's stuff was still there—especially the painting he loved most.

The second I opened the door, I heard Sophie's voice floating from the living room.

"Daniel, I wanna learn how to paint. Teach me?"

"I don't know how to paint," he said, sounding way too relaxed.

"Then have Emily teach me. Didn't she major in art?"

I walked in. She was perched on his lap like she owned him.

When she saw me, she didn't even blink—just leaned in closer.

"Oh, you're back? Perfect timing. Daniel says you're good at painting. Teach me, will you?"

I didn't answer. Just kept walking toward the study.

"Emily." Daniel's voice dropped. Cold. "Sophie's talking to you."

I stopped. Looked over my shoulder. "And?"

"Apologize," he said, eyes sharp. "For being rude."

Was this real?

My dad had just been buried, and he wanted me to apologize to his side chick?

"I refuse."

"Emily!" He stood so fast Sophie flopped off him, all dramatic. "Don't push your luck."

"Push my luck?" I laughed, dry and sharp. "My father just died. And you're playing house with your side chick in our living room. Who's really pushing it here?"

Smack.

His hand connected with my cheek so hard my ears rang.

I froze.

Three years, and not once had he hit me—until now.

"Who are you calling a side chick?" His voice went dark. "Sophie's my fiancée. You were just a stand-in."

Fiancée.

Of course.

Sophie smirked. "Hear that? I'm the real Mrs. Wilson. You were just the temp while I was abroad."

My cheek stung, but I felt nothing.

"In that case, let's get divorced," I said.

"Divorced?" Daniel looked amused, like I'd told a joke. "You think marriage is some game? You don't just walk away."

"Then what do you want?"

"What do I want?" Sophie stood, heels clicking as she circled me. "I want you to take care of me, obviously. I mean, I AM the real bride. For starters, my laundry needs doing."

She pointed at a basket stuffed with her clothes.

"I'm not a maid."

"Of course not," she laughed. "Maids get paid. Do you?"

Daniel watched like he was enjoying the show.

I exhaled slow and steady. I walked toward the study. I was only here for Dad's things.

"Stop," Daniel said, stepping in front of the study door. "Do the laundry first."

"Move."

"Laundry. First." No wiggle room in his voice.

Sophie piped up, smug as ever. "Better hop to it, or Daniel's gonna get mad."

One look at his dead eyes, and it clicked.

This wasn't about chores. It was about breaking me.

"Fine." I spun around and headed for the laundry room.

Sophie's voice followed, way too happy.

"Daniel, she's so obedient."

"She knows her place." Cold.