After My Husband Faked Death as His Twin

The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and lilies as I stood beside the polished mahogany casket, my trembling hand resting protectively over my swollen belly. Christopher's funeral was a blur of black suits and hushed condolences, faces swimming before my tear-filled eyes. Eight years of marriage, of love and sacrifice, reduced to this solemn ceremony in a Hamptons chapel overlooking the very waters that had claimed him.

"Mrs. Blake, would you like to sit down?" A gentle hand touched my elbow, but I shook my head. I would stand for Christopher, for our unborn child who would never know their father.

The priest's words washed over me like distant waves. "Christopher Blake was taken from us too soon..."

I glanced up, catching Eleanor and Richard Blake exchanging a look across the casket. Not grief, not quite, but something secretive, almost... anticipatory. My mother-in-law quickly dabbed at dry eyes with a pristine handkerchief, while my father-in-law's jaw tightened. Perhaps grief manifested differently for everyone, I told myself, though something cold settled in my stomach.

Michael—Christopher's identical twin—stood across from me, his arm around Victoria, his wife. His face was a mirror image of my husband's, yet somehow wrong in its stoicism. Victoria leaned against him, her designer black dress fitting her slender frame perfectly. Had she always worn such expensive clothes? I couldn't remember.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust..."

The service concluded, and I was ushered through a procession of sympathetic touches and murmured platitudes. I nodded mechanically, a widow performing her role in this tragic play.

---

The Blake family's drawing room buzzed with subdued conversations as mourners balanced small plates and crystal glasses. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, mockingly bright for such a dark day. I stood by the fireplace, accepting condolences with numb gratitude.

"Isabella, darling." Eleanor approached, her perfume enveloping me before her arms did. "You're being so brave."

"Thank you for arranging everything," I managed, my voice hollow.

Richard joined us, his hand heavy on my shoulder. "We need to discuss arrangements, Isabella. For the baby, for you."

"I'll be fine," I said automatically. "My parents offered—"

"Nonsense," Eleanor interrupted, her smile tight. "Family should stay together in times like these. We think you should move in with Michael and Victoria."

I blinked, certain I'd misheard. "I'm sorry?"

"It makes perfect sense," Richard continued, lowering his voice. "The baby needs a father figure. Michael is Christopher's twin. Same blood, same... everything."

Eleanor nodded eagerly. "Victoria could help with the baby. And you could... well, the family line must continue."

The implication hung in the air between us, monstrous and unspoken. I stared at them, bile rising in my throat.

"You want me to... with Michael?" The words felt dirty in my mouth.

"The Blake name must endure," Richard said firmly, as if discussing a business transaction. "Victoria, unfortunately, cannot provide an heir."

Across the room, Michael caught my eye and raised his glass slightly. Something in his gaze—possessive, expectant—sent a chill through me that had nothing to do with grief.

"I need some air," I whispered, pushing past them.

---

Long after the guests had departed and the Blake household had fallen silent, I slipped out into the moonlit night. Sleep eluded me, my mind racing with Eleanor's bizarre proposal and the strange glances exchanged throughout the day.

The cemetery was eerily peaceful, Christopher's fresh grave adorned with flowers. I knelt, scattering rose petals—red, like the ones he'd given me on our first date.

"I miss you," I whispered, tears flowing freely now that I was alone. "What am I supposed to do without you?"

A hushed laugh floated through the darkness, followed by murmured words. I froze, listening. Behind a nearby mausoleum, two figures stood close together—Michael and Victoria, their silhouettes unmistakable in the moonlight.

"Soon, my love," Victoria whispered, her hand caressing his face with intimate familiarity. "Everything's going according to plan."

Michael pulled her close, kissing her with a passion that seemed inappropriate for a grieving brother-in-law. "I've waited so long to have you openly."

The tenderness in his voice—a voice so like Christopher's—twisted something inside me. This wasn't grief. This was... celebration.

---

Back at the estate, I moved through the darkened hallways like a ghost, my mind spinning with questions. In my room, a cream-colored envelope lay on my pillow, my name written in familiar handwriting.

With trembling fingers, I opened it, unfolding the note inside.

"My dearest Bella-bird," it began—Christopher's private name for me, one he'd whispered against my skin on countless nights. "Know that I will always watch over you and our little hummingbird..."

Hummingbird. Our secret name for the baby.

The note was signed simply: "Michael."

But Michael had never called me Bella-bird. Michael shouldn't know about our hummingbird.

Unless...

My hand flew to my mouth as the first terrible suspicion took root in my mind.