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.

"You did that on purpose!" Sophie stormed over and slapped me hard across the face.

I didn't move. Just took it.

"Enough," Daniel said, tugging her back. "It's your birthday. Don't get riled up."

Then he looked at me, all ice. "Clean it up. Meet me in the study after."

I knelt down, picking up shattered glass. The shards bit into my fingers—blood mixing with champagne, sharp and jarring.

Around me, guests whispered. Some looked sorry. Most didn't. The ex-Mrs. Wilson, on her knees, cleaning up the mess. Real classy entertainment.

When I finished, I headed to the study.

Daniel sat behind the desk. A small bottle sat in front of him.

"Take it," he said, pushing it toward me.

I picked it up. Birth control pills.

"Why?"

"You're not fit to have my kid." Flat. No emotion. "One a day. Don't forget."

I stared at it, a bitter laugh bubbling up.

Three years of marriage. He barely touched me. And now this?

"I said take it." Sharper this time.

I opened the cap, poured one out. The tiny white pill sat in my palm like a punchline.

"Take it. Now."

I popped it in. The bitterness hit fast.

"Water?" he asked, annoyed.

"No need." I swallowed it dry. Let the taste scorch my tongue.

"Every day," he said, waving me off. "Go. Don't ruin Sophie's mood."

I turned to leave.

"Wait."

He opened a drawer and pulled out a little blue box.

Tiffany.

"This is her birthday gift. Deliver it."

March 15th. The day I'd been dreading.

I took the box. That stupid robin's-egg blue.

"In front of everyone," Daniel added.

I gripped it tight, nails digging into my palm.

3 p.m. I told myself—just a few more hours.

Back in the living room, the party was in full swing. A five-tier cake rolled in, candlelight dancing across Sophie's smug, glowing face.

"Make a wish, Sophie," Daniel said, all soft.

She clasped her hands, eyes closed. Then smiled. "I wish to be with Daniel forever."

Applause. Someone joked, "So, Daniel—when's the wedding?"

"Soon." Daniel glanced at me, sharp and deliberate.

"Emily," he called.

I stepped forward. "Mr. Wilson asked me to give this to you. Happy birthday."

Sophie lit up, opening the box to reveal a full set of pink diamonds, glittering like betrayal.

"Oh my God, it's stunning!" She threw her arms around Daniel and kissed him right there in front of everyone.

I stood there, silent, like background noise.

"Emily?" Jenny's voice broke through. Mark's girlfriend. "Isn't today your birthday too? I swear you and Sophie have the same one."

The whole room froze.

Sophie slipped off Daniel's arm, smirking. "Seriously? What are the odds?"

"It's not a coincidence," I said, calm and clear. "I don't have a birthday."

Jenny blinked. "Wait—what? How can you not—?"

"Dead people," I said, locking eyes with Daniel, "don't celebrate birthdays."

Then I turned and walked out.