When My Fiancé Turned Me Into His Ex’s Copy

The winter wind cut sharp against my face.

I pulled my coat tight as I walked up the concrete steps of my apartment building. The street was quiet, dusted with dirty gray slush.

A shadow moved by the entrance.

Jonah stepped out from under the awning. His wool coat was unbuttoned, his tie loose at his throat. His breath came out in short, white clouds.

"Did you really have to call my mother?" he demanded.

His voice was pure ice. He didn’t ask if my stomach was better. He didn’t ask why I left the hospital.

I stopped two steps below him. "I didn't call her, Jonah."

"Bullshit." He took a step down, looming over me. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscles jumped. "She showed up ten minutes after you left. She screamed at Mira. She made a scene in front of the entire fourth floor. Mira had a panic attack, Paige. Do you have any idea what you did?"

"I didn't call her," I repeated. My voice was flat and even.

Jonah scoffed. A cruel, bitter smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"You're so pathetic," he said. The words rolled out easily, like he had kept them on his tongue for years. "You think you can play these little games? You think dressing like her and talking like her makes you anything close to what she is?"

The street fell dead silent. A car drove past, tires splashing through the slush.

Jonah leaned in, his eyes narrowing into cold slits.

"You're nothing but a pathetic knockoff, Paige. You always have been."

I looked at him.

I waited for the sting. I waited for my eyes to fill with tears, for my throat to tighten, for that familiar ache in my ribs.

Nothing came.

Instead, a quiet snap echoed inside my head. Like a fuse blowing out in the dark.

Something inside me simply switched off. Completely. Permanently.

I didn't blink. I didn't shout. I didn't offer a single word of defense.

I stepped around him on the stairs. I pulled out my key, unlocked the heavy glass door, and stepped into the warm lobby. I let the door swing shut behind me. The lock engaged with a solid, heavy click.

Through the glass, Jonah stood frozen on the steps, staring at me like he expected me to turn around and beg.

I didn't look back. I took the elevator up to the fifth floor.

My apartment was dark and completely still.

I didn't turn on the living room lights. I walked straight into my bedroom, turned on the overhead bulb, and opened the double doors of my closet.

Rows of clothes hung before me under the harsh light.

Pastel pink cardigans. Cream-colored silk blouses. Pale blue floral dresses that fell just past the knee. Nude ballet flats lined up neatly on the bottom rack. Soft, modest, and delicate.

Every single item was something I had bought to look like Mira.

For six years, I had dressed like a ghost.

I dragged a stack of flat-pack moving boxes from behind the dresser and popped the first one open.

Then I went to work.

I grabbed the pastel cardigans off their velvet hangers. I folded each one with steady, deliberate hands and laid it into the box. Next came the floral dresses, the linen skirts, the pale trench coat Jonah had praised three years ago.

I didn't rip them. I didn't cry. I was completely calm.

I took my phone out, snapped quick photos of the designer tags, and listed them on a resale app in bundles. *Pristine condition. Lightly worn.* I set the prices low. I just wanted them gone.

Within an hour, the hangers hung bare. The shelves were stripped clean. Three large cardboard boxes sat taped and stacked near my bedroom door.

My closet was completely empty.

I stood on my tiptoes and reached all the way to the back of the top shelf. My fingertips brushed against cold cardboard covered in dust.

I pulled it down.

It was an old shoebox, battered at the corners and sealed with a strip of black duct tape.

I sat on the edge of my bare bed and peeled the tape away.

Inside sat my old life.

My black crew jacket, the fabric faded and soft from years of floor work. My worn leather fingerless gloves. A pair of beaten-up high-top sneakers with flat red laces.

I picked up the jacket. It smelled of old cedar and faint gym sweat. It felt heavier than all the silk and cashmere combined.

I pressed the fabric against my chest. My heart gave a hard, sudden thud against my ribs. It felt like waking up from a six-year coma.

I reached for my phone on the nightstand.

I scrolled past Jonah’s name. I scrolled past his family's group chat. I went all the way down to a number I hadn't dialed since I was seventeen.

I opened the thread. The last message from Gabriella was dated six years ago: *Paige, don't do this to yourself.*

My fingers moved across the keyboard. Fast. Certain.

*I'm back. Sign me up for Luminar.*

I hit send.

I stared at the screen, holding my breath.

Five seconds passed.

Seven.

In under ten seconds, the screen lit up with a reply.

*Your sneakers are still in my closet. Come get them.*

A short laugh broke out of my throat, raw and real in the empty room.

I pulled on the faded crew jacket, zipped it to my chin, and tied my hair back into a high, tight ponytail.

The knockoff was dead.

Paige was back.