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.

Sophie's laugh echoed behind me. "She's really something. Daniel, where'd you dig up this little gem?"

I shut the door to the guest room and yanked a small box from my bag.

My birthday gift to myself—a plain silver ring etched with one word: 'Reborn.'

Emily died today. Tomorrow, someone else shows up in her place.

My phone buzzed. It was the doctor from earlier.

"Ms. Egerton, we've discovered something serious about your father's death. Someone injected him with an unapproved drug right before surgery. That's what caused it to fail. You need to come in—we've called the police."

Unapproved drug?

My hands shook so hard I almost dropped the phone. Fury shot through me like fire. This wasn't just negligence.

They killed him.

The doctor's voice was still playing on a loop in my head when someone knocked.

Four o'clock. Every second dragging me closer to escape.

"Emily, come out." Daniel.

I opened the door. He stood there in some overpriced Tom Ford suit, holding a white box.

"Put this on." He tossed it at me.

Inside was a wedding dress—ivory French lace, glittering with Swarovski crystals. The same one I used to stare at in Kleinfeld's window.

"Why?"

"Don't ask questions." His voice snapped. "Be downstairs in thirty."

I just stood there, heart pounding.

I changed. Looked at myself in the mirror.

Three years ago, I pictured myself walking down the aisle at St. Patrick's in a dress like this. Instead, Daniel dragged me to City Hall for a rushed signature.

Two hours left until showtime.

"What are you standing there for?" Sophie shoved the door open. Her eyes lit up when she saw me. "Tsk. Not bad. Shame, though—it's mine."

"What're you talking about?"

She leaned in, all smug and whispery. "Today's my engagement party with Daniel. You're just here to model the dress. Test the lighting."

A stand-in. Even now.

"Oh, and one more thing," she added, flipping her hair. "Press'll be everywhere. Watch your mouth. Just tell them you're my stylist, cool?"

My fists curled, nails cutting deep into my palms.

Downstairs, the ballroom looked like a Hollywood set. White roses. Chandeliers. Red carpet. All glitz, no soul.

"Get on stage," Daniel barked. "Photographers, start shooting."

Flashbulbs popped as I posed like a lifeless mannequin.

"Smile," the photographer said.

I forced one. It felt worse than crying.

"No, too stiff." Daniel stepped onto the stage. "You don't look like a bride."

He slid an arm around my waist and leaned in, voice low. "Do a good job, or maybe I'll move your dad's grave to Potter's Field."

Direct hit. Potter's Field—where New York buries the forgotten.

I sucked in a breath. Flashed the kind of smile that could blind.

"Much better," he said, satisfied.

For the next hour, I was on display. Smile, pose, hold. They adjusted my stance, the lighting, the angle—like I was just another prop in their perfect shot.

"Alright, looks good." Sophie finally showed up, draped in a custom Oscar de la Renta. "My turn."

I stepped off the stage—almost.

"Wait," Daniel said. "You stay."

"What?"

"You're the bridesmaid."

Bridesmaid. At my husband's engagement party. With a side chick.

"Daniel, don't you think that's a bit much?" Even Sophie hesitated.

He shrugged. "What's the problem? No one here knows who she is."

The doors opened. In came Manhattan's elite—perfect smiles, tailored suits, and glances sharp enough to cut.

The emcee kicked things off, full of scripted praise for the "perfect couple." Polite applause followed.

"And now, let's hear from our beautiful bride-to-be."

Sophie took the mic like she'd practiced this speech a thousand times. "Thank you all for being here to celebrate our happiness.

"Daniel and I were high school sweethearts. We spent some time apart while I studied in Europe, but now—we're finally back together."

Then she looked at me.

"There's someone I need to thank especially."

My heart skipped.

"My dear friend Emily," Sophie said, flashing that smug, knowing smile. "She's taken such good care of Daniel these past three years. I'm truly grateful."

The whispers in the crowd said it all. They got the message loud and clear.

Sophie stepped in front of me. "Now that I'm back, it's time to set her free."

She held out a check. One million dollars.

A million to erase three years of my life—and my father's.

"Take it," she murmured. "It's enough to leave New York. Start over."

I took the check—and tore it straight down the middle. Then again. Let the pieces flutter to the floor.

"Emily!" Daniel snapped.

I grabbed the mic. "Yeah, no thanks," I said, cool as ice. "I don't need a gift. Because Daniel Wilson and I? We're legally married."