His Stand-in Bride

The house woke before I did. Voices rattled the corridors, footsteps thudded up and down the stairs. The sharp, sweet scent of lilies floated under my door, heavy enough to choke me. Someone burst out laughing in the hallway-one of the maids, nervous, too high-pitched. Beyond the windows, I could hear the muffled shouts of journalists camped outside the gates. They called Amelia's name like a chant, waiting for their prize.

I pulled myself out of bed and crossed to the window. The front drive was a storm-black cars lined in neat rows, cameras flashing like lightning whenever the gates cracked open. Men with cameras leaned over the iron railings, their breath clouding in the morning air, their voices tangling in the cold wind: Bride of the year, Amelia Mendes! Over here!

But Amelia wasn't trembling, or pacing, or hiding.

I found her in the sunroom, lounging across the chaise like a goddess bored of worship. A silk robe slipped down her shoulder, one bare leg stretched against the cushions. In her hand, a champagne glass caught the light. She tilted it lazily, bubbles clinging to the rim before she set it against her lips.

For a moment, I just stared. She looked untouched, as if the chaos outside existed for someone else.

"You do realize the wedding is tomorrow?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.

She smiled without looking at me. "Do you realize I don't care?"

I moved into the sunlight, folding my arms. "This isn't a game, Amelia. The investors are breathing down Papa's neck. The company's hanging by a thread. You think you can drink your way through it?"

Amelia laughed, a careless, reckless sound that made my stomach twist. "Oh, Annie. Always so dutiful. Do you know what this looks like to me? Papa's last desperate trick. Parade his daughter in white, hand her over to a man who could buy us out ten times over, and pray for mercy."

Her fingers tapped the rim of her glass, nails painted scarlet. "Tell me, does that sound like survival... or slavery?"

"Don't do this." I took a step closer, lowering my voice. "We don't have a choice. If you walk away, Papa loses everything. Do you want to see him ruined? Do you want to see us lose the house?"

She finally looked at me then. Her blue eyes were sharp, glinting with something that looked like anger, or maybe freedom. "Maybe I do. Maybe I'm tired of being bought and sold like cattle. Papa's debts are not mine to carry."

I flinched. "They're ours, Amelia. Whether we like it or not."

Her smile faltered, but only for a second. She leaned forward, her robe sliding dangerously low. "Why don't you do it then? Why don't you marry Nate Reynolds?"

My breath caught. Heat burned up my neck. "That's not funny."

"Oh, but it is." She tilted her head, studying me. "You're perfect for him. The obedient daughter. Always willing to sacrifice. You'd make such a lovely little wife."

"Stop it." My hands curled into fists.

Her grin widened. "Tell me you wouldn't, Annie. Tell me you wouldn't give yourself up for Papa's empire."

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. Her words pressed into me, sharp as glass. She laughed again, loud, reckless, cruel.

"God," she said, shaking her head. "You really would. You'd walk down that aisle tomorrow if he asked you to."

I turned away, throat burning. I couldn't let her see what her words dredged up-the memory of that night. A stranger's mouth on mine, his hands pressing into my hips, the way he made me forget everything for a few stolen hours. The guilt still clung to me like smoke, and now Amelia's taunt had hit the wound dead center.

That night, the house finally quieted. The guests had gone, the florists had left, the caterers packed away. Only the faint tick of the grandfather clock filled the halls as I passed by Amelia's room.

The door was half open. I slowed.

Inside, the light was soft, golden against the walls. Amelia stood by the window, her robe slipping, phone pressed to her ear. Her voice was low, secretive.

"Yes... tonight," she whispered. "I can't breathe here another second. I promise. I'll come."

My eyes flicked to the bed. The screen of her phone glowed, the name flashing like a knife straight into my chest.

Felix.

My heart slammed.

I couldn't breathe. The air felt too thin, too heavy all at once. His name still tasted bitter on my tongue after all these years. Felix Perez. The man who once held my hand at parties, who whispered dreams into my ear, who kissed me like he meant forever. The man who'd only wanted what my family owned.

I could see it again-his smile, too polished to be real. The way he'd touched the small of my back as though guiding me into a future he'd already mapped out. The night I'd overheard him, laughing with friends about the Mendes fortune, about me being a stepping stone. My blood had gone cold. That night had broken something inside me.

And now Amelia was whispering to him, promising escape.

I stepped back, gripping the doorframe so hard my knuckles whitened. I wanted to storm in, to scream at her, to tear the phone out of her hands. But my feet wouldn't move.

Later, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, my skin prickling with dread. The house had gone quiet. Too quiet. Then-softly-the click of a door.

I slipped out of bed, heart pounding. The hallway was dark, only a thin strip of moonlight cutting across the floor. Amelia's room was empty. The dress was crumpled on the chair, pins still scattered around it. On the desk, a note lay half-written, ink smudged.

Annie, don't try to stop me...

My throat closed. Her perfume still lingered, faint and fading, as if she'd carried it out into the night.

Behind me, footsteps thundered. My father appeared in the hallway, his shirt half undone, face ashen. His eyes locked on mine, wild with panic.

"Annie," he rasped, his voice hoarse, broken. "Your sister is gone."