He Sent a Stand-In to My Bed, So I Stole His Heir

“Remember, no matter how much I despise Georgia Pruitt, she's still the wife I married and brought home.”

“You can look. You don't touch.”

Richard nodded, obedient and quiet. “Okay.”

The living room door slammed shut.

A few seconds of hesitation.

Then the bedroom door handle turned, and the door swung open.

I squeezed my eyes shut, kept my breathing slow and even, pretending I was still deep in the sleep the sedative was supposed to have given me.

His footsteps were soft, as if he didn't want to wake me.

Richard walked to the edge of the bed and stood there for a while.

I could feel his gaze on me, heavy with something complicated.

“Georgie?” he called, barely above a whisper.

I didn't move.

He was silent for a few more seconds, then reached out and gently lifted the sleep mask from my eyes.

The room was dim. Only the small amber nightlight was on.

I didn't dare open my eyes. All I could do was track his movements by feel.

Richard sat on the edge of the bed and watched me for a long time without speaking.

Then he raised his hand and touched my face.

A shudder ran through my whole body.

The next second, his hand drifted slowly downward, fingers trailing along my neck……

Every muscle in me went taut.

Curt had warned him. This was only a performance. He wasn't allowed to touch me. Had he gone rogue?

Did Richard actually feel something for me……

While my mind was still racing,

I heard a faint sigh from just above me.

“Georgie, if only I were the one who'd married you.”

“If only……”

“I were Curt Dudley.”

Richard leaned down and pressed a light kiss to my forehead.

Then he stood and went into the bathroom.

The water turned on.

Unlike Curt, Richard showered fast. He was out in under ten minutes.

He climbed into bed so carefully, as if afraid of disturbing something fragile.

He lifted one corner of the blanket and slid in beside me.

Same as every other night, his hand slid to my waist and loosely held on.

Restrained. Distant.

Deliberately polite.

Like completing a task.

I laughed to myself, cold and silent.

Three years. Every single night, the same thing.

If I was “asleep,” he'd just hold me like this, proper and still, until morning.

If I wasn't “asleep,” he'd follow Curt's instructions: “kiss her a couple of times, make it look intimate.”

But he never crossed the line.

Because Curt wouldn't allow it.

And because Richard “couldn't.”

I didn't know how long I lay there, until the breathing beside me turned deep and steady.

Only then did I open my eyes in the dark.

In the spill of moonlight, I could see the face of the man beside me. He really did look like Curt.

A single thought.

It rose slowly inside me.

The next morning, by the time I got up, Richard was already gone.

Breakfast sat ready on the table, along with a handwritten note.

“Had to go in for overtime. Don't forget to eat. Love you.”

My gaze dropped to the signature at the bottom.

I smiled, slow and knowing.

The handwriting was trying its hardest to imitate Curt's.

But everyone has their own habits when they write.

Pay even a little attention, and the tells are obvious.

I finished breakfast and stared out the window at the empty garage for a long time, thinking.

If I'd heard correctly last night,

one very familiar name had come up.

Lila Mercer.

Curt's ex-girlfriend from eight years ago. The old flame everyone thought had burned out for good.

She'd come back to the country.

And she and Curt had been rekindling it in secret—for three full years.