My Husband Cloned Me to Replace His First Love

The ink on the page was still wet, a glossy black river sealing my fate. I didn’t look at the lawyers shuffling their papers, nor did I look at my father, who was currently wiping a bead of sweat from his receding hairline with a trembling handkerchief. He wouldn't meet my eyes. He hadn't for weeks.

Instead, I stared at the man in the wheelchair across the mahogany expanse.

Hunter Gibson. The name alone was enough to freeze conversation in any ballroom in Manhattan. Up close, he was less a man and more a tectonic plate—silent, imposing, and radiating a pressure that made my ears pop. He hadn't spoken a word since I entered the library of his Hamptons estate. He just watched me, his dark eyes tracking my movements with the predatory focus of a hawk circling a field mouse.

I smoothed the skirt of my white dress. It wasn't designer. I’d bought it off a rack in SoHo specifically for this moment, a petty rebellion against the couture gown my father had tried to force on me. If I was going to be sold, I wouldn't be gift-wrapped.

"It is done," the lead attorney announced, snapping his briefcase shut. The sound was like a gunshot in the cavernous room.

"Leave," Hunter said. His voice was a low rumble, vibrating through the heavy oak table. "All of you."

The exodus was immediate. My father practically ran, muttering a suffocated "Goodbye, Kennedy" that didn't even reach the door. And then, the silence returned, heavier than before.

Hunter rolled his chair forward, the motor's hum the only sound in the room. He stopped inches from me. I could smell him now—sandalwood, expensive scotch, and something colder, like rain on pavement.

"So," he said, his lip curling into a sneer that marred his devastatingly sharp features. "The Reynolds' wild child. I expected more... noise."

"I save the noise for people who matter," I replied, keeping my voice steady despite the hammering of my heart against my ribs.

His fingers drummed a frantic, rhythmic beat on his armrest. *Tap-tap-tap.* "Don't mistake this arrangement for a marriage, Kennedy. You are here to settle a ledger. Your room is in the East Wing. Stay out of my sight, and we won't have a problem."

"A pleasure," I said, standing up. "I prefer my own company anyway."

"Good," he countered, his gaze dropping to my hands, which were clenched white at my sides. "Because a spoiled party girl like you wouldn't last five minutes in my reality."

He spun the chair around and vanished into the shadows of the hallway, leaving me alone in a house that felt less like a home and more like a mausoleum.

***

The East Wing was beautiful in the way a museum is beautiful—cold, sterile, and terrified of human touch. The walls were a gallery white, the furniture sharp-edged and modern. I felt like an ink stain on a pristine canvas.

I spent the first hour pacing, mapping the perimeter of my prison. There were cameras everywhere. Small, blinking red eyes nestled in the crown molding, watching me breathe. He was watching. I could feel it.

I needed an anchor. I opened my suitcase, bypassing the silk blouses and heels to find the wooden box wrapped in flannel. With trembling hands, I unwrapped it. The ceramic bird emerged, its blue glaze catching the afternoon light. It wasn't perfect; a jagged line of gold lacquer ran down its wing where I had repaired it years ago—*Kintsugi*, the art of finding beauty in broken things. My mother’s hands had shaped this clay. It was the only piece of her I had left.

I placed it on the sleek, glass nightstand. It looked out of place, too organic for this steel world.

"Tacky."

I spun around. Hunter was in the doorway. I hadn't heard the motor.

"Privacy isn't a clause in the contract?" I asked, stepping between him and the nightstand.

"Nothing in this house is private," he said, rolling closer. He nodded at the bird. "A cheap trinket. It disrupts the aesthetic."

"It stays," I said. My voice was low, dangerous. I felt the heat rising in my chest, a familiar fire I usually drowned in champagne. "It’s the only thing in this house with a soul."

Hunter paused, his rhythmic tapping stilling for a second. He looked from the bird to my face, his eyes narrowing as if re-evaluating a threat. For a second, the air between us crackled, not with hatred, but with a voltage I didn't understand. He saw the defiance, and instead of crushing it, he seemed to drink it in.

"Suit yourself," he muttered, backing out. "Just keep the door closed."

***

Two weeks of silence followed. I became a ghost in the machine, eating alone, walking the grounds alone, avoiding the cameras.

I found solace in the garden behind the estate. It was overgrown, wilder than the manicured front lawn. I sat on a stone bench, my sketchpad on my knees, charcoal staining my fingers as I tried to capture the twisted roots of an old oak tree.

"The shading is off."

I jumped, the charcoal snapping in my hand. Hunter was there, positioned on the gravel path. I hadn't heard him over the wind.

"You're spying again," I said, wiping my hand on my jeans.

"Observing," he corrected. He moved closer, extending a hand. "Let me see."

Hesitantly, I held up the pad. He studied it for a long time, his face unreadable. I braced myself for the insult, for the mockery.

"You have an eye for structure," he said quietly. "But you're too timid with the shadows. Darkness has weight, Kennedy. Don't be afraid to let it crush the light a little."

I stared at him. The cruelty was gone, replaced by a strange, intense focus.

"I... I didn't know you knew about art," I stammered.

"I know about broken things," he said, his eyes meeting mine. There was no malice there, just a deep, weary recognition. "There is an unused studio in the north turret. The light is better. Use it."

That night, he didn't retreat to his office. He sat at the head of the dining table, and for the first time, a place setting was laid for me. We didn't talk about the contract, or my father's debts, or the cameras. We talked about Caravaggio and the brutal honesty of Renaissance sculpture.

As he spoke, watching me with an intensity that felt dangerously like interest, the cold knot in my stomach began to loosen. Maybe I hadn't just been sold. Maybe, in this broken man and his silent house, I could find somewhere to land.