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.

That night, they headed out to see a Broadway show. Sophie made sure I knew it.

"Daniel says he's got a surprise for me—maybe he's proposing?"

Daniel ruffled her hair like she was something precious. "You'll find out soon."

As soon as the door clicked shut, I bolted for the study.

My dad's stuff was still in a messy pile. I picked through it carefully—his last traces, dumped like junk.

A photo album slipped out.

Our wedding album.

In every shot, I was all smiles. But Daniel? Not once did he look at me. His eyes were always focused somewhere just outside the frame. Now I got it—he'd been staring at Sophie, the version burned into his memory.

I flipped to the last page. Tucked inside was an old photo of a younger Sophie, glowing like she belonged in a perfume ad.

On the back, Daniel's handwriting: [Waiting for you to come back.]

So I'd been standing in for her since day one.

I shut the album and spotted something on the desk—an Equity Transfer Agreement.

Thirty percent of the company. Going to Sophie. The signing date? Tomorrow.

My hands shook as I read. The deeper I went, the colder I got. Some of those shares were backed by my dad's money. Daniel once called it our venture.

Now it was about to become his and Sophie's.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

"Is this Ms. Emily Egerton? This is NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital. We've found some irregularities in your father's medical records—"

I didn't even finish the call. The front door creaked open. They were back.

"You're still up?" Daniel frowned at the lit room.

"I'm going to bed now." I grabbed my dad's things fast.

Sophie clung to his arm, glowing. "Daniel was so sweet tonight. He booked the whole theater just for us. Oh, and Emily—tomorrow's my birthday. Be ready."

Tomorrow. March 15th.

I froze.

That was my birthday too.

"What? Something wrong?" Daniel's voice turned sharp.

"No." I dropped my head. 'Just one more day. If I can get through tomorrow...'

"What do you need me to do?"

"A birthday party, duh." Sophie grinned. "Daniel's friends are coming. You just need to handle the food. For eighty."

Eighty people. She wanted me to cater her party—on my own birthday.

That night, I laid in the cold guest bed, staring at the calendar on my phone.

Three years of marriage, and Daniel had never remembered my birthday.

Now I knew the truth.

He didn't forget.

It just wasn't mine to begin with.

***

Sophie's screech yanked me out of sleep.

"Emily! You're still in bed? Is the food ready?!"

I blinked at the time—6 a.m.

Dragging myself up, I stumbled to the kitchen. Counters were buried under ingredients. Cooking for eighty people, solo?

They were gonna kill me with a spatula.

"Hurry up." Sophie strolled in wearing silk La Perla like she was royalty. "Daniel's guests'll be here soon."

I tied on an apron and got moving—chopping, roasting, mixing. Total chaos.

"This cake's boring." She sauntered over. "Do it again."

I looked at the fresh cake I'd just made, bit my tongue, and started over.

"This salad's gross."

"This plating's ugly."

"Use the Christofle utensils—these are too cheap."

She nitpicked like she was running a five-star hotel. I kept working like the unpaid staff.

By 2 p.m., guests started showing up—Daniel's Wall Street crew. I recognized a bunch of them.

"Emily?" Mark, Daniel's old Harvard buddy, spotted me. "What're you doing in the kitchen?"

I opened my mouth, but Sophie jumped in first.

"You've got it wrong, Mark." She smiled sweetly. "I'm Daniel's fiancée. She's just the help."

Mark blinked, confused, looking between us.

"But—"

"She's right," Daniel said, sliding an arm around Sophie's waist like it was nothing. "Mark, meet Sophie Montrose—my fiancée."

Mark's eyes locked on mine, full of disbelief.

I dropped my gaze and turned back to the food.

"Emily, bring out the champagne," Daniel called.

I set down the knife and headed to the wine cellar. The Dom Pérignon 1996 weighed a ton. My arms ached as I carried it out.

"Careful!" Sophie shrieked. "That's Daniel's favorite vintage! You can't afford to drop it!"

Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was her voice.

Either way, my foot slipped.

The bottle crashed to the floor.

Champagne exploded across the tile, golden bubbles catching the chandelier light as the room filled with the scent of $500-per-glass humiliation.