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.

I popped open the washer and stared at the heap of perfume-soaked clothes. My stomach turned.

Every piece reeked of the truth—I was just a fill-in. A punching bag they could dress up or tear down whenever they felt like it.

Right as I reached for the pile, Sophie's voice cut in.

"Wait. That Valentino's hand-wash only. Don't ruin it."

I froze.

"What? Got a problem?" She strutted over and yanked the dress out. "This one's fifty grand. Don't screw it up."

I grabbed it and moved to the sink. Cold water rushed over my fingers while I scrubbed like a machine.

"Use cold water," she added, posted up in the doorway like a hall monitor. "Hot'll wreck the color."

I said nothing. Head down. Scrubbing.

She kept going.

"Honestly? Pathetic. Top of your class at Parsons, and now you're my maid. But hey, that's what happens when you've got MY face."

My head snapped up.

Her face?

I stared into the mirror. Two versions of the same girl stared back—no. She looked like me.

"Daniel couldn't sleep the night he saw you," she said, all sugar turning sharp. "Said you were basically my twin. But a knockoff's still a knockoff."

I kept scrubbing. The water turned freezing.

"Hurry it up. Daniel's taking me to Broadway later." She stretched, smug. "That same theater where you two had your first date. He wants to relive it—with me."

My hand slipped. The dress dropped into the sink.

Our first date. Christmas. He'd rented a private box for 'Phantom of the Opera.'

Guess even that memory was borrowed.

"Oh my god, are you brain-dead?" Sophie shrieked. "My dress!"

Daniel stormed in. His eyes locked on the soaked fabric.

"What happened?"

"She did it on purpose!" Sophie dove into his arms. "She's jealous and wrecked it!"

"I didn't mean to."

"That's enough," Daniel snapped. "I know exactly what this is. You ruined her dress, you replace it."

"It cost fifty thousand," Sophie said instantly.

Fifty grand. I couldn't even find five to save my dad. How the hell was I supposed to pay that?

"I don't have that kind of money."

"No money?" Daniel's smile was ice. "Then you'll stay and work it off. Once it's paid, you can go."

So this was the trap. A dress. Just another leash.

"Fine." I stood, water dripping from my hands. "I'll pay for it."

As I walked out, Sophie's voice trailed after me, way too pleased.

"Daniel, you're evil. Now she's stuck."

"She was never leaving," he said. "A stand-in doesn't get to decide."

I clenched my fists, nails digging in deep.

Twenty more days. Then I was gone.