Chapter 3 The Bride Who Shouldn't Exist

I didn't speak to anyone the next day.

Not the maids. Not the guards stationed at every discreet corner of the penthouse. Not the butler who silently delivered breakfast and retreated before I could even muster a "thank you."

And definitely not Andre.

Because his lips were still burned into mine.

Because I'd let him kiss me back.

Because I had no idea who I was anymore.

The woman in the mirror didn't look like Maureen Langford.

She wore silk that clung like water and pearls that didn't belong to her. Her eyes looked haunted. Like she was a ghost in someone else's skin.

Andre had seen through me last night. Shredded every illusion I tried to carry into this life. But he hadn't kicked me out. Hadn't exposed me. Hadn't destroyed me.

No-he kissed me.

And that was the most terrifying thing of all.

The sound of the private elevator chiming stirred me out of my daze.

I stood up straight, heart pounding.

Footsteps approached.

Not just one set-two.

The door opened, and Andre walked in, flanked by a woman I didn't recognize.

She was tall, graceful, and dressed in sleek navy. Mid-thirties, maybe. No nonsense.

Andre's hand was on her lower back.

I didn't realize I was staring until he looked directly at me and said, "Jealousy doesn't suit you."

I swallowed hard.

"I'm not jealous."

He smirked. "Good. Because she's here to help."

The woman stepped forward and extended a hand.

"Selene. Image consultant. You'll be seeing a lot of me."

I hesitated before taking her hand.

"She needs polishing," Andre said casually, pouring himself a drink from the bar. "Teach her how to walk, talk, and breathe like a De Luca."

Selene's brows arched. "That's a tall order."

Andre sipped his drink. "She's replaceable."

My stomach twisted.

Selene glanced at me with something like pity-then nodded curtly.

"Let's begin."

The next five hours felt like war.

Selene taught me how to glide when I walked. How to tilt my chin just enough to look like I belonged. How to smile without revealing fear, how to speak in clipped syllables, how to hold a champagne flute like it was a weapon.

"This family devours weakness," she said at one point. "If you cry, do it behind a locked door."

I didn't ask what happened to the last woman who cried in public.

I already knew.

When the lessons ended, I escaped to the marble bathtub in the guest wing and soaked until my fingers shriveled.

I closed my eyes.

And when I opened them again-

Elena was standing in the doorway.

I screamed.

Water sloshed over the sides. My heart lurched into my throat.

But when I blinked-she was gone.

I was alone.

Shaking.

Losing it.

But the illusion had been too real. Too detailed. The black coat. The look in her eyes.

And the way she stared at me like I'd stolen something that was hers.

That night, I didn't wait for Andre to come to me.

I went to him.

Because I had questions. And maybe I needed to see if his kiss had meant something-or if I was just a tool he hadn't finished using.

I knocked on his study door once.

Then entered.

He was behind the desk, sleeves rolled, eyes glinting in the lamplight.

"You're braver than I thought," he murmured.

"Or dumber," I countered.

He smiled.

I stepped closer, spine straight. "I need to know why you're keeping me here."

"You're my wife."

"You know I'm not Elena."

"I didn't marry you for Elena."

That stopped me cold.

"Then why?" I whispered.

He stood and circled around the desk. Approaching like a lion.

"You have her face. Her voice. Her smile when you lie."

He stopped in front of me.

"But you're not her. You're better."

I stared at him, stunned.

"You're using me."

"I could've had you killed the second you stepped into her shoes. But I didn't. That's something, isn't it?"

"Is it mercy?" I choked. "Or entertainment?"

"Neither." His eyes darkened. "It's control."

And then his hands were on my hips, pulling me flush against him.

"You want to be needed, don't you?" he whispered against my neck. "You want to matter to someone. Even if it's dangerous."

"I don't want this," I said, weakly.

His fingers trailed down my spine.

"Then why are you still here?"

Because I had nowhere to go.

Because I couldn't go back to who I was before.

Because a part of me wanted to destroy him just as much as I wanted to be destroyed by him.

He kissed me again.

And this time, I kissed him back like I meant it.

I woke in his bed.

Alone.

Draped in his scent and his sheets.

Shame rolled through me like waves-but so did heat.

Because last night hadn't been just about surrender.

It had been about power.

He took from me. And I took just as much from him.

And I knew-he felt it too.

The next morning, chaos arrived in the form of a newspaper.

Selene burst into the room without knocking, a tabloid in her manicured hand.

"Page six," she snapped.

I blinked, still groggy. I took the paper and stared.

My face. Andre's. Caught in a stolen moment on the balcony last night.

"The Bride Reappears: Elena De Luca Back from the Dead?"

My blood ran cold.

Selene sat on the edge of the bed. "That photo was taken through a long lens. The press thinks you're Elena, but the questions have begun."

I stared at the article, mouth dry.

"What do we do?"

"You do nothing. Andre will handle it. But you better be damn convincing from now on."

I nodded slowly.

She stood, smoothing her skirt. "Oh-and your sister was spotted in Paris yesterday. Or someone who looks a lot like her."

My head snapped up.

"What?"

Selene gave me a cool look. "If she resurfaces, all of this burns. And so do you."

I didn't have time to process it.

Andre summoned me.

This time, to a private dinner.

Just the two of us. At the top of the De Luca tower.

Candlelight. Silver flatware. Crystal goblets.

Like a wedding reception with no guests.

He didn't smile when I walked in.

"Sit."

I did.

He poured the wine himself.

And for a moment, we didn't speak.

Then he said, "You leaked nothing."

It wasn't a question. It was an observation.

I nodded. "Of course not."

He studied me. "Good. Then we have a bigger problem."

He tossed a file onto the table.

I opened it slowly.

Inside were surveillance photos. Dozens. Of Elena.

In Paris.

Talking to a man in a long coat.

Nikolai Saranov.

Again.

I looked up at Andre.

"You think she's selling your secrets?"

"No," he said coldly. "I know she is."

"Then why aren't you chasing her?"

He leaned in.

"Because I don't need to chase what's already mine. She'll come back eventually. They always do."

I swallowed. "And me?"

He reached across the table and ran his finger down my wrist.

"You're here, aren't you?"

"For now."

His voice dropped.

"Make me want to keep you."

That night, I didn't sleep.

Not because I was afraid.

Because I wanted to stay in control.

Because one wrong move, and everything would unravel.

But deep down, a darker part of me whispered that maybe-just maybe-I wanted to be unraveled.

By him.