He Married Me Because I Resembled His Late Wife

The day of the birthday had finally arrived.

I stood by the window, gripping my phone tightly as I whispered, “I’m ready. You can send the limousine.”

On the other end of the line, my brother exhaled heavily. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I said, voice firm. “I’ve wasted enough time here.”

My brother’s voice softened. “You’re my sister, Zoe. No matter what happened, I’ll always take you back.” Then his tone sharpened. “And don’t worry. I’ll arrange a marriage for you. I’ll make sure that bastard regrets ever laying a finger on you.”

Before I could reply, he hung up.

I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply. Just one more night. Then I’d be free.

The party was grand, as expected. The hall was decorated with extravagant displays, chandeliers casting golden light over the elegantly dressed guests. Waiters moved through the crowd, offering wine. The elite of the city had gathered to celebrate Tyron’s birthday, sipping champagne and exchanging empty pleasantries.

I wore one of the dresses Cameron had ordered me to wear—from his late wife’s closet. The fabric clung to my skin like a ghost, suffocating me with memories that weren’t mine.

Then, suddenly—

“You’re wearing my mom’s clothes!”

Tyron’s sharp voice cut through the party, echoing across the hall.

Heads turned. Conversations halted. A heavy silence fell over the room as all eyes landed on me.

Tyron stood at the center of it all, his face flushed with anger. His small hands clenched into fists, his eyes burning with pure hatred. “You can’t wear my mother’s clothes! I hate you! You’re not my mom!”

A murmur spread through the crowd.

“She must be a terrible stepmother.”

“How cruel… wearing the first wife’s dress in front of his son?”

“She’s trying to replace her. It’s disgusting.”

The weight of their judgment pressed down on me. But I didn’t care. Not anymore.

Then, as if on cue, Nadine stepped forward, her voice soft and soothing. “Tyron, calm down,” she said, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

And just like that, Tyron quieted. His anger melted away as he let her comfort him.

More whispers.

“She’s the one who should be the mother.”

“Cameron and Nadine would make a better couple. That woman doesn’t belong.”

I barely heard them. My body felt numb. I was so, so tired. I didn’t even care anymore. I just wanted to leave.

Then Cameron appeared.

With that ever-present fake warmth, he crouched in front of Tyron and gently said, “Son, apologize to your mother. She’d taken care of you for years. She is your mother.”

Tyron shook his head violently. “No! She killed my mom! She’s evil!”

Another wave of murmurs.

I stood frozen, my nails digging into my palms.

I was done.

Without another word, I turned and walked out of the hall.

The whispers followed me, but I didn’t stop. The air outside was cold against my burning skin, but I welcomed it. Anything was better than staying in that suffocating room.

Then—footsteps.

Cameron.

His eyes blazed with anger as he hissed, “What was that? Why would you walk out on me?”

For a split second, my mind betrayed me—flashing back to a time when he wasn’t this cold, ruthless man.

I remembered the way he used to look at me, his eyes filled with warmth instead of resentment. The late-night drives when we talked about dreams, the mornings when he’d pull me into his arms and whisper promises against my skin. I remembered the man who once kissed my bruised knuckles after I burned myself in the kitchen, murmuring, “Be careful, love. I can’t stand seeing you hurt.”

That man was long gone.

Instead of answering, I reached into my bag, pulled out the stack of papers I had finalized the night before, and threw them into his chest.

“Let’s divorce,” I said coldly. “Whether you like it or not.”