My Husband Pretended to Be Dying for My Twin

The Wright family estate in the Hamptons looks like a postcard—white columns, manicured hedges, the kind of house that appears in architectural magazines under headlines about American elegance. I've always hated it.

I arrive in an Uber, my hands still shaking from the confrontation with Reid. The driver gives me a concerned look when I pay, probably noticing the wild edge in my eyes, but I'm already out of the car, already climbing the stone steps to the front door.

My mother opens it before I can knock. She's wearing pearls. Of course she is.

"Genevieve." Her voice is flat, unsurprised. "Come in."

The foyer smells like lilies and furniture polish. My father stands at the base of the grand staircase, checking his watch like I'm late for a business meeting.

"We need to talk," I say, and my voice cracks on the last word. "Reid—he's been lying. About everything. The illness, the marriage, the—"

"We know," my mother says.

The world stops.

"You... what?"

"We know about Reid's arrangement." She closes the door behind me with a soft click. "We've always known."

My father adjusts his tie, that familiar gesture that precedes every pronouncement he's ever made. "It was the best solution for everyone involved. Jolene needed the Sorbonne opportunity. You were... well, you were available."

Available. Like a spare part. Like something interchangeable.

"You let me give up my scholarship." The words come out strangled. "You watched me marry him, take care of him, waste five years of my life on a lie, and you knew?"

"Don't be dramatic," my mother says. "You've had a comfortable life. A beautiful home. Reid's family connections have been invaluable for your father's business."

"I want a divorce."

The temperature in the room drops ten degrees.

"Absolutely not," my father says. "Do you have any idea what kind of scandal that would create? Jolene's reputation—"

"Jolene's reputation?" I'm shouting now, something I've never done in this house. "What about mine? What about what they did to me?"

My mother's hand connects with my cheek before I see it coming. The slap echoes through the foyer, sharp and final.

"You selfish girl." Her voice is ice. "After everything Jolene has achieved in Paris, everything she's built, you want to destroy it all because you're jealous?"

I touch my burning cheek, tasting blood where my teeth cut the inside of my mouth.

"Give me your phone," my father says.

"What?"

"Your phone. And your car keys. Now."

I back toward the door, but my mother is already there, blocking it. My father advances, his hand outstretched, and I realize with cold clarity that they're not going to let me leave.

"You're going to stay here," he says, "until you come to your senses."

The drive to the Hamptons estate passes in a blur. My mother drives, my father in the passenger seat, both of them silent as monuments. I sit in the back like a prisoner, watching the city give way to manicured suburbs, then to the isolated stretch of coastline where the estate sits like a beautiful trap.

They walk me upstairs to my childhood bedroom—the one I haven't slept in since my wedding night. The room is exactly as I left it: pale blue walls, white furniture, the bookshelf still lined with my high school science textbooks.

"We'll bring you meals," my mother says from the doorway. "You can come out when you're ready to be reasonable."

The lock clicks from the outside.

I stand in the center of the room, surrounded by the ghost of who I used to be, and finally let myself break.

Two days later, I hear his voice downstairs.

Reid.

My parents' voices blend with his in the foyer, too low for me to make out words. Then footsteps on the stairs. The lock turns.

He looks the same—perfectly healthy, perfectly composed. He closes the door behind him and leans against it, studying me like I'm a problem to be solved.

"Your parents thought we should talk," he says.

"Get out."

"Genevieve." He moves closer, and I back toward the window. "This doesn't have to be ugly. We can make this work. I've realized—these past few days—that I actually prefer you to Jolene. You're smarter, more interesting. We could make this marriage real."

He reaches for me, his fingers closing around my wrist.

"Let go," I say.

"Just listen—"

The bedside lamp is ceramic, heavy, painted with flowers. I grab it with my free hand and swing.

It connects with his forearm. He releases me with a curse, stumbling back. The lamp shatters on the hardwood floor.

We stare at each other across the wreckage.

"You're insane," he says, cradling his arm.

"Get out."

He does, slamming the door behind him. The lock clicks again.

I sink onto the bed, my hands shaking, and look at the window. Second story. Maybe fifteen feet to the ground. The old oak tree I used to climb as a child stands just close enough, its branches scraping the glass.

I stand up and start planning my escape.