His Substitute Bride I'm Done Being Her Shadow

The HR manager panicked and fired off a string of question marks.

Millie simply replied, "Don't tell Clint yet."

She and the HR manager were on good terms, so all the woman could say was, "Just remember, you'll need to get Mr. Gilbert's signature yourself for the final approval step."

Millie agreed.

She didn't want to waste time sitting around in a hospital. It had been ages since she'd been home, and she wanted to see how her parents were doing.

She stood at the base of their apartment building, gazing up at the familiar silhouettes bustling around in the kitchen window. Her eyes stung.

Those were the outlines of her mother and father, shapes she'd known her entire life.

She'd texted them that morning, and she hadn't expected them to actually prepare a proper meal.

Ever since she was little, she'd craved their love. Had they finally moved past Carrie's death? Were they finally willing to spare even a sliver of affection for her?

But the warmth barely had time to settle before the front door swung open—and there stood Lucille.

Faced with Millie's shock, Lucille was perfectly at ease. "Hey, sis. You're home."

Sis?

Millie stood frozen, her gaze drifting past Lucille to the living room, where Clint and her father, Greg Sullivan, sat on the couch, chatting like old friends.

So the person busy in the kitchen hadn't been her mother at all—it had been Lucille?

Her mother, Judith Sullivan, waved a spatula from behind the stove, confirming the suspicion. "Lucy, come taste this for me—tell me if it needs more salt."

That tender, familiar tone. Millie hadn't heard it in this house since Carrie was alive.

Without realizing it, Millie's fingers curled inward, nails biting deep into her palms.

It wasn't until everyone was seated around the dinner table that Judith offered a casual explanation.

"Lucy and I just clicked. I've taken her in as my goddaughter. Millie, she's your little sister now. Whatever unpleasantness happened before, let's put it behind us."

"Even if you won't do it for Clint's sake, do it for your sister's."

At the mention of Carrie, Judith's eyes glistened. Greg drained his glass in one heavy swallow. Clint went still, staring at nothing.

It was Lucille who broke the silence, cracking a lighthearted joke that coaxed the mood back to life.

Millie sat motionless, a sheet of ice spreading through her chest.

Not a single dish on the table was something she liked. Every plate, every bowl, was prepared to Carrie's taste.

But unlike before, there were two new additions—seafood dishes that were clearly Lucille's favorites.

Millie had never been given that courtesy. Not once.

Lucille ate with obvious relish, and Greg and Judith fell over themselves to heap more food onto her plate.

Clint watched Lucille with a soft gaze, his eyes clouded with tender reminiscence.

The scene was a near-perfect replica of how things had been when Carrie was alive.

And Millie, as always, sat tucked in the corner, quietly scooping plain rice into her mouth. No one spared her a second glance.

So it was true. Not a single person at this table loved her.

After dinner, Millie retreated silently to her old room to pack her things. Then she heard a noise from the study next door.

Uneasy, she went to check—and found Lucille on her tiptoes, stretching for the porcelain vase on the top shelf.

It had been Carrie's most treasured possession.

Millie's heart lurched. "Don't touch that—it's fragile!"

The words had barely left her mouth when Lucille's foot slipped.

A sharp crash. The porcelain vase shattered into pieces across the floor.

Clint was the first to rush in. His eyes locked on the fragments, and the color drained from his face.

"I'm s-so sorry..." Lucille's eyes were already rimming red, her voice small and trembling. "Millie asked me to get the vase down for her, and I—I couldn't hold on..."

She pointed a quivering finger at Millie before Clint even had a chance to ask.

Millie looked up in disbelief. She opened her mouth to defend herself, but Clint was already staring at her, his expression frigid, his eyes full of disappointment and accusation. "Millie, I know you've always resented Carrie's things, but you had no right to take it out on this."

A second later, Judith stormed in and slapped Millie hard across the face, sobbing so violently she could barely breathe. "You can't even stand to let your sister's things exist, can you?"

"Why couldn't it have been you who died instead?"

Greg arrived last. He didn't say a word, but the fury in his eyes was as solid as a fist.

No one was willing to hear a single word of her explanation.

Her cheek burned. Memories she'd spent years burying clawed their way to the surface, one after another.

Their parents had always favored Carrie. When both girls fell sick at the same time as children, Greg and Judith spent the whole night at Carrie's bedside.

Their birthdays were barely a day apart, yet only Carrie's was ever celebrated.

It wasn't until Carrie died that their parents finally turned their eyes toward Millie—even asking, on occasion, if she was tired.

She had told herself that was its own kind of reward after years of suffering.

But now, all it took was one woman who resembled her sister's personality, and every last one of them fell right back under the spell.

Millie pressed her hand to her stinging cheek and laughed—a low, hollow sound. Then she pulled out her phone and opened a video recording.