His Substitute Bride I'm Done Being Her Shadow

When Millie opened her eyes again, she was lying in a hospital bed.

The door swung open.

Lucille walked in.

She carried an elegant gift box, a gentle smile on her lips, though her eyes gleamed with undisguised triumph.

"Miss Sullivan, you're awake." Her tone was light, almost cheerful. "I came by to check on you. Even brought you a little get-well gift."

Millie regarded her coldly. "Get out."

"I'd advise you not to push your luck. Haven't you figured it out yet?" Lucille's voice was soft as silk. "Clint only has eyes for me now. And I intend to keep it that way."

She ripped open the lid of the gift box.

A hiss split the air.

A dark shape shot out of the box.

Millie's pupils contracted. Before she could react, fangs sank into her wrist.

Searing pain exploded through her.

"Ah!"

She flung her hand back, sending the box crashing to the floor. A slender black snake slithered free and vanished beneath the bed.

Blood dripped steadily from her wrist.

But in the very next second, Lucille let out a shriek, stumbling backward and colliding with the edge of the bed. Tears spilled instantly down her cheeks.

"Miss Sullivan! You—why did you lash out at me like that? I only came to apologize..."

Footsteps thundered toward the door.

"Lucy!"

Clint burst in and rushed straight to her side, catching her in his arms.

"Are you all right?"

Lucille collapsed against his chest, weeping like a broken flower in the rain.

"Sir, it hurts so much... I don't know what I did to upset Miss Sullivan. She just threw the box at me out of nowhere. I really was trying to apologize..."

Her body trembled as she spoke.

Meanwhile, Millie clutched her bleeding wrist. Her face had gone chalk-white, and her breathing was already growing erratic.

"It was a snake..." Her voice shook as she reached for the emergency call button. "She put a venomous snake in that box—"

"Enough!" Clint shoved Millie aside, sending her crashing to the floor.

"Do you honestly expect anyone to believe that?"

"Lucy is terrified of insects. You're telling me she went and found a venomous snake to attack you?"

"Millie, if you're going to make accusations, at least put some thought into them. How can you be this vicious?"

Millie burned with the fury of having the truth twisted inside out. She forced herself upright, scrambling toward the fallen gift box. "I'm not lying. If you don't believe me, just look—"

"Stop making a scene!" Clint seized her wrist. The snakebite wound tore open, blood flowing freely. "Lucy lowered herself to come apologize and you wouldn't even accept it. Now you're bullying her on top of that? What is wrong with you?"

The venom was spreading.

Millie's whole body shook with pain.

"Clint..." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Call a doctor..."

Clint frowned, noticing that the pallor of her face didn't look like an act.

But just then, Lucille let out a soft hiss and clutched her own wrist.

"I think... something scratched me just now too. It really hurts..."

Clint didn't hesitate. He scooped Lucille into his arms and strode toward the door.

"Come on. I'm taking you to get checked out."

Millie was still on the floor. She watched his retreating back, that resolute silhouette disappearing through the doorway, and a chill spread from the center of her chest outward.

She never should have expected anything.

In Clint's heart, she had always been the imperfect stand-in. How could she ever compete with a newer, better copy?

In the end, it was a nurse who found her and rushed her into emergency treatment.

By the time Millie woke again, an entire day and night had passed.

Her new supervisor in New York had sent a message saying her desk was all set up and she was welcome to start anytime.

Something dimmed behind Millie's eyes. She typed back: "About five more days. Then I'll be there."

Her new boss replied with a smiley face.

Then a notification popped up from Lucille's Instagram. Millie had followed the account out of curiosity back when she was abroad.

The photo was painfully familiar. She recognized the setting in an instant: Clint's apartment.

Lucille was curled up on the balcony lounge chair like a contented cat, languid and at ease.

Behind her, in the kitchen, Clint had his sleeves rolled to the elbows. He was focused on chopping vegetables, the lines of his profile soft and warm.

Millie stared at the photo on her phone. No surprise. No anger. Only a despair that seeped into her bones.

Since Carrie's death, Clint had never once set foot in that kitchen.

There had been one night when Millie came home late from a business dinner, her stomach churning so badly she thought she might be sick. All she wanted was a bowl of hot porridge. In the end, all Clint did was hand her a glass of warm milk.

A dull, relentless ache bloomed in her chest. She drew a deep breath and forced the tears back.

Don't cry, Millie.

That was what she told herself.

Hadn't she already decided to let go?

She inhaled slowly, then sent the resignation letter she had prepared to HR.