Not Her: The Shadow Bride's Great Escape

Ava POV

My father died just before dawn.

The heart monitor screamed, a high-pitched wail that sliced through the oppressive silence of the room.

I held his hand until the last dregs of warmth left it, sobbing until my throat felt flayed and raw.

David stood in the corner, a silent, watchful sentinel.

He didn't offer comfort. He offered me a phone.

"You should inform the Don," he said flatly.

I called Ethan.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

Then it clicked over to voicemail.

"He is in a meeting," David said smoothly, as if reading from a script.

"My father is dead!" I screamed, throwing the phone at him. "Tell him his wife needs him!"

David caught the phone mid-air, his expression unchanging. "I will convey the message."

Ethan didn't come to the hospital.

He didn't come to the funeral home.

He sent a wreath of lilies so large it looked obscene next to my father's simple pine casket.

I went back to the estate alone, a hollow shell of a woman.

The house was empty. Ethan was supposedly in London for a "crisis."

I wandered the halls, my grief curdling into a restless, burning energy.

In the silence, I remembered my father's dying words.

The box... in the library... hidden...

Ethan's library.

I had never been allowed in there without him.

But he was in London.

I went to the library. The door was locked, but I knew where the spare key was-hidden in a vase in the hallway, a slip-up I had noticed months ago while observing the staff.

I opened the door.

The room smelled of leather, old paper, and him.

I searched the shelves, pulling books out, running my hands along the dark wood.

Nothing.

Then I saw it.

A panel behind the heavy mahogany desk that didn't sit quite flush.

I pried it open with a letter opener.

Inside was a small, dusty alcove.

And a box.

My hands trembled as I lifted the lid.

Photos spilled out.

Dozens of them.

My breath hitched in my throat.

They were photos of me.

Me laughing. Me walking. Me in a dress I didn't own.

Wait.

I looked closer.

The woman in the photos had my hair. My eyes. My smile.

But the clothes were dated. The cars in the background were from ten years ago.

I turned a photo over.

Olivia. Paris, 2014.

I would have been fourteen in 2014. This woman was in her twenties.

I dug deeper into the box.

There were letters.

My dearest Olivia, I will burn the world to keep you.

Olivia, why did you leave?

I found her. A girl who carries your ghost.

I dropped the letter as if it were on fire.

A girl who carries your ghost.

Me.

I wasn't his love.

I wasn't his queen.

I was a copy. A replacement doll dressed up to play the part of a dead woman.

The necklace. The 'O'.

It wasn't for 'Ours'. It was for Olivia.

I retched, bile rising in my throat like acid.

Every touch, every kiss, every "I love you" had been for her.

He had been making love to a ghost while using my body.

I looked down at my stomach.

The heir.

He didn't want a child with me. He wanted a child with her face.

He was using me to recreate a dead fantasy.

A cold, hard rage settled over me, freezing my tears instantly.

I stood up.

I put the photos back. I closed the panel.

I walked out of the library and locked the door.

I went to the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror.

I touched the cold glass.

"You are not Olivia," I whispered.

My father was dead because of this world.

My life was a lie because of this man.

I looked at my stomach.

I loved the idea of a baby. I loved the innocent life inside me.

But this child was the chain that would bind me to this monster forever.

It was the only thing he cared about.

The only thing he needed from me.

If I gave him this heir, I would never escape. I would be trapped in this mausoleum, a broodmare for a man in love with a corpse.

I made a choice then.

A choice that would damn me to hell, but would set me free.

I would not give him his heir.

I would take the one thing he wanted more than anything else.

And then, I would burn his world to the ground.