My Husband Cloned Me to Replace His First Love

The password came to me at three in the morning, jolting me awake like a slap. I'd seen Hunter type it once, his fingers moving across the keyboard in the library—a rhythm I'd unconsciously memorized. Eight characters. *H-O-P-E-1-9-8-7.*

Pathetic.

I slipped out of bed, my bare feet silent on the cold marble. The estate's security system was accessible from any terminal, a design flaw born of Hunter's arrogance. He never imagined his captive would fight back.

The office in the East Wing was dark, the only light coming from the computer screen as it flickered to life. My hands shook as I navigated the server, pulling up the archived footage. I scrolled through dates, my pulse hammering in my ears, until I found it: the morning Hope destroyed my mother's sculpture.

I hit play.

The footage was crisp, shot from the camera mounted above the fireplace. Hope entered the frame alone, glancing over her shoulder. Once. Twice. Confirming the room was empty. Then she turned to the coffee table, her expression shifting from that practiced innocence into something cold and calculating.

She picked up the ceramic bird. Examined it. Her lips curved into a smile that had nothing to do with joy and everything to do with malice. She raised it above her head and hurled it against the marble with the force of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

The sculpture shattered. Hope stood there for three full seconds, admiring her work. Then she rearranged her face—softening her eyes, parting her lips in false shock—and called for help.

I watched it twice. The second time, I didn't cry. I felt nothing but a cold, clarifying rage that burned away the last threads tying me to this place. To him.

I downloaded the file onto a flash drive and tucked it into my bra. Arthur wanted proof she despised Hunter. This wasn't quite that, but it was enough to prove she despised me—and that she was willing to destroy anything that threatened her position.

It would have to do.

***

The dizziness started in the studio. I was sorting through my sketches, deciding what to take and what to burn, when the room tilted sideways. My knees buckled. I grabbed the edge of the worktable, but my grip failed, and I went down hard, my temple cracking against the corner of a wooden stool.

When I opened my eyes, Dr. Hayes was leaning over me, her face tight with concern. "Don't move. You hit your head."

"I'm fine," I croaked, trying to sit up. The room spun.

"You're not." She pressed a hand to my shoulder, keeping me flat on the floor. "When did you last eat?"

I couldn't remember. Days blurred together in this place.

Dr. Hayes pulled a penlight from her bag, checking my pupils. "I'm running a blood panel. Stay still."

Twenty minutes later, she returned with a tablet, her expression unreadable. She crouched beside me, lowering her voice to barely a whisper. "You're pregnant. Six weeks."

The words didn't land at first. They hovered in the air, abstract and impossible. Then they hit, and the world fractured.

"No," I breathed. "No, that's not—"

"The blood work doesn't lie." Dr. Hayes glanced toward the door, then back at me. "Does he know?"

I shook my head, my hand instinctively moving to my stomach. A baby. Hunter's baby. The one thing that would chain me to this estate forever. The one thing Hope would see as a threat worth eliminating.

"You can't tell him," I said, my voice breaking. "Please. He'll never let me leave. And she'll—" I couldn't finish the sentence.

Dr. Hayes studied me for a long moment. Then she powered down the tablet. "The official record will show dehydration and low iron. Nothing else."

"Thank you," I whispered.

She stood, her face grave. "You need to leave, Kennedy. Soon. Whatever you're planning, do it now."

***

I packed in the dark, moving on autopilot. One bag. Essentials only. I wrapped the shards of the ceramic bird in a silk scarf, tucking the bundle into the bottom of the duffel. I'd repair it later, somewhere far from here. Somewhere safe.

The burner phone buzzed. Savannah: *Midnight. Service entrance. Storm's rolling in. Perfect cover.*

I checked the time. 11:47 PM.

I pulled on jeans, boots, a black sweater. I looked around the room one last time—the sterile walls, the cameras, the cage I'd mistaken for a home. I felt nothing.

I slung the bag over my shoulder and opened the door.

The hallway was empty, the cameras blinking their red eyes. I kept my head down, moving quickly toward the service stairs. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and rain began to hammer against the windows, drowning out the sound of my footsteps.

I was three steps from the exit when I heard the whir of the wheelchair.

I froze.

Hunter emerged from the shadows, blocking the door. His face was unreadable, his hands resting on the armrests. He looked at the bag. At me.

"Going somewhere?" he asked, his voice soft and deadly.