When My Fiancé’s Twin Claimed Me as His Bride

The rain didn't stop for two days. It lashed against the tall windows of the estate, trapping us inside. But the weather wasn't the real cage.

On Tuesday morning, he made the new rules.

We were sitting at the long mahogany dining table. I was eating toast. He was staring at his coffee.

"Your phone stays on the kitchen counter at night," he said suddenly. He didn't look up.

I paused, my knife hovering over the butter. "Why?"

"Because it distracts you."

"I use it for my alarm," I said softly. "I always have."

"I'll wake you."

He took a sip of his coffee. Then he kept going. "Don't leave a room without telling me where you're going. And you are not to speak to the housekeeper or the chef unless I am sitting right next to you."

I put my knife down. The metal clinked loudly in the quiet room. "Kane, this is ridiculous. I'm not a child."

His head snapped up. The air in the room went entirely still.

"You think I'm ridiculous?" His voice dropped. It wasn't the warm, deep tone I had loved for four years. It was a cold, jagged scrape.

"I think you're being unreasonable," I said. I kept my voice perfectly level, but my heart started to race.

"I am trying to build a life with you!" he shouted. His hands gripped the armrests of his wheelchair. His knuckles turned stark white. The veins in his neck bulged. "After everything I've lost!" He struck his stump, the pinned-up fabric of his sweatpants slapping loudly. "And you want to sneak around my house and whisper with the help?"

"I'm not sneaking—"

"You're mine now!" he snarled. His dark eyes were wild, completely devoid of the gentle light I used to see in them. "Act like it."

I didn't argue. I just stared at him. I pressed my thumbnail deep into my palm under the table. The sharp pain kept my face blank. The man I loved had never treated me like property.

Three hours later, the rage vanished like it never happened.

I was in the kitchen washing a glass. I heard the squeak of his wheelchair behind me. Before I could turn, his arms wrapped tightly around my waist. He buried his face in my back.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed. His voice shook violently. "I'm so sorry, Azalea. I'm just in so much pain. Please don't hate me. Please don't leave me."

His tears soaked through my shirt. It was wet and uncomfortable. I turned around and stroked his hair. He clung to me like a drowning man. But as I looked down at his shaking shoulders, my chest felt hollow. It didn't feel like remorse. It felt like a performance. Like a trap snapping shut, disguised as a hug.

He took a nap every afternoon at three o'clock. The pain medication made him heavy and slow. As soon as I heard his deep, rhythmic breathing from the bedroom, I walked out to the grand foyer.

I needed air. I needed to stand on the porch and feel the rain.

I reached for the heavy brass handle of the front door. It didn't turn.

I frowned and looked closer. The standard deadbolt was gone. In its place was a sleek, black biometric scanner. A tiny red light blinked slowly in the dim foyer.

I pressed my thumb against the glass pad.

Beep. The light flashed a harsh, angry red. Access Denied.

My pulse picked up. I walked quickly down the hall to the side entrance. Another black scanner. Another blinking red light. I rushed into the kitchen and checked the back door. Sealed. I even checked the heavy iron gate leading to the garden. It had a brand-new electronic lock.

Every single exit was modified. They all required a fingerprint.

His fingerprint.

I wasn't living in a house. I was locked in a vault.

I walked back to the living room. My legs felt like lead. I sat down carefully on the edge of the velvet sofa. The room was massive, but the walls felt like they were pressing right up against my skin. I didn't cry. Panic wouldn't help me. I pressed my thumbnail into my palm again, harder this time. I let the sting ground me. I took a slow, deep breath. I had to pay attention. I had to survive.

The next afternoon, the physical therapist arrived. He was the only outsider allowed through the gates. He took him into the therapy room down the hall. I heard the heavy door click shut.

I had maybe forty-five minutes.

I walked quietly down the corridor and slipped into his private study. The room smelled like stale leather and dust. The heavy curtains were drawn, blocking out the gray afternoon light.

I walked over to the massive mahogany desk. It was perfectly neat, except for a black leather journal lying open in the center.

I stepped closer. My eyes fell on the pages. The handwriting was cramped, messy, and frantic. It looked nothing like the sharp, slanted script on the yellow notepad I found at Kane's apartment.

I leaned over the desk and read.

She is finally where she belongs. She was owed to me. The universe owed me this after taking my leg.

A cold chill shot down my spine. Owed?

I turned the page. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

She doesn't know. She looks at me and thinks I'm him. It's perfect. She was returned to her rightful place.

I stopped breathing. Thinks I'm him?

My eyes darted to the next line. There was a name written there. Kane. But it was crossed out. Not just crossed out—violently destroyed. The pen had gouged through the thick paper. Over and over again. Kane. Kane. Kane. Scratched out with blinding hatred.

My hands started to shake. The man in the wheelchair... wasn't Kane.

I didn't know how it was possible. They had the exact same face. The same voice. But the man outside that door was an impostor.

I pulled my phone from my pocket. My fingers were trembling so badly I almost dropped it on the hardwood floor. I opened the camera app. Click. I took a photo of the torn page. Click. I took a photo of the page about being 'owed.'

Suddenly, a sound echoed in the hallway.

Squeak. Squeak.

The rubber wheels.

He was coming.

Pure terror flared in my chest. I shoved my phone deep into my pocket. I carefully nudged the journal so it sat exactly where I found it. The angle had to be perfect.

The brass door handle began to turn.

I stepped quickly away from the desk. I grabbed a thick book from the nearest shelf and flipped it open just as the door swung wide.

He sat in the doorway. His chest was heaving slightly from rolling himself down the hall. His dark eyes locked onto me. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked. His voice was dangerously quiet.

I forced a smile. I kept my thumbnail pressed hard into my palm. "Just looking for something to read," I said lightly. I held up the book. "I finished my other one."

He stared at me. His eyes darted to the desk, lingering on the open journal, then snapped back to my face. He didn't blink. He was searching for a crack in my expression.

I didn't give him one.

"Let's go back to the living room," he said flatly.

"Okay," I agreed.

I walked past the wheelchair. I could feel his eyes burning into my back. My skin crawled with revulsion. The man I loved for four years was gone. And I was locked inside a fortress with a stranger who wore his face.