Caught In The Twin's Cruel Game

Claire Costa POV:

He dragged me into the waltzing crowd on the dance floor, his arm a steel band around my waist. The touch that I had once found comforting now felt like a cage. Every point of contact was a brand, searing the truth of his identity into my skin.

"Let go of me," I hissed, trying to wrench my arm free. My struggles were useless against his superior strength.

"Dance with me, Claire," he murmured, his breath hot against my temple. He tightened his grip, forcing my body flush against his. "Your husband is watching."

The words were a deliberate taunt. I twisted my head, and through the swirling couples, I saw him. Elliot. He stood near the edge of the dance floor, Kassie at his side, his expression unreadable but his eyes cold. He was watching us. Watching his brother dance with his wife.

"Killian, I swear to god," I whispered, my voice choked with a mixture of rage and panic.

He simply smiled, that terrifyingly familiar smile that I now knew was all his own. "That's my name. Say it again."

Suddenly, the house lights flared back on, the music cutting off abruptly. I blinked against the sudden brightness, momentarily dizzy.

When my vision cleared, the scene was frozen. Killian's arm was still locked around my waist. Elliot and Kassie were staring at us. The other guests were looking on with a mixture of confusion and morbid curiosity.

"Well, well," Killian drawled, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. "Looks like my sister-in-law prefers my company after all."

Kassie let out a little laugh. "Claire, you look so confused. Can't you even tell your own husband apart?"

The public humiliation was a fresh wave of agony. I was a joke. The centerpiece of their sick, twisted game. I wouldn't stand for it. Not anymore.

"Elliot," Kassie said, tugging on his arm. "Let's go. She' s just making a scene."

But Elliot stepped forward. "Claire has had too much to drink," he announced, his voice smooth and controlled, the perfect CEO managing a minor PR crisis. He looked at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Let's go home."

Home. The word was a mockery. I wanted to scream, to rage, to claw at their perfect, deceitful faces. But I also just wanted to escape.

"I'm so confused," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm as I looked from one twin to the other. "Which one of you is my husband again? I seem to have forgotten."

I didn't wait for an answer. I wrenched myself from Killian' s grasp and walked away, my head held high, even as my world crumbled around me.

Elliot followed me upstairs to our penthouse.

"Claire, what was that all about?" he asked, closing the door behind him. He started unbuttoning his cuffs, the picture of a husband coming home after a long night. "You embarrassed me."

I didn't answer. I went to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water, my hands shaking.

He came up behind me, starting to knead my shoulders with his thumbs. "I'm sorry about Killian. You know how he is."

I flinched away from his touch. I remembered all the times he'd done this, rubbing my shoulders after a long day of shooting. All the times I'd leaned back into his touch, feeling safe and loved. Every memory was now tainted, poisoned by the truth.

I felt a scream building in my chest, a primal howl of pain and betrayal. "Was it all a lie?," I finally managed to ask, my voice cracking. "The past three years… was any of it real?"

His phone buzzed on the counter, interrupting the suffocating silence. He glanced at it. The screen lit up with a single name: Kassie.

He ignored the call, turning back to me, his expression softening into one of patient concern. "We can talk about this in the morning, Claire. You're tired."

I saw it then. The complete and utter disregard in his eyes. He didn't care. He wasn't even going to deny it. My pain was an inconvenience, a scene to be managed.

A cold, terrifying calm washed over me. The pain was still there, a massive, gaping wound in my chest, but it was overlaid with a sheet of ice.

I would not break. Not in front of him.

"Fine," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "We'll talk in the morning."

I went to our bedroom and closed the door. The next day, I booked an appointment with the city clerk's office. The earliest available was in two days.

I left the penthouse before dawn, my small suitcase in hand. As I passed the guest room, the door was slightly ajar. I glanced inside.

Elliot was sitting on the edge of the bed. Kassie was curled up, her head in his lap, looking pale and frail. He was stroking her hair, his expression filled with a gentle concern that made my stomach churn. He was murmuring something to her, his voice low and soothing.

It was the same way he had comforted me after my nightmares. The same gentle touch, the same soothing voice. He was giving her the care that I had thought was reserved for me, the care that had made me fall in love with him.

The scene was a dagger to my heart. A fresh, agonizing twist of the blade.

I tried to slip past unnoticed, but he looked up.

"Claire," he called out, his voice sharp.

He stood up and came to the door, blocking my path. Killian appeared from the living room, a smirk on his face. "Leaving so soon, sister-in-law?"

"Kassie isn't feeling well," Elliot said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "She'll be staying here for a while."

My silence was a block of ice.

Kassie emerged from the room, wrapping her arms around Elliot's waist from behind. She looked at the travel portfolio in my hand. "Oh, is that for your photography fellowship in London? I saw the acceptance letter on Elliot's desk. Congratulations." She plucked the portfolio from my grasp. "Let me see."

"Give it back," I said, my voice dangerously low.

"Don't be so stingy," Kassie whined, flipping it open. She feigned a stumble, sending the portfolio-and herself-crashing to the floor. A cup of coffee on a nearby table went flying, scalding my hand.

I cried out, a sharp intake of breath against the searing pain.

But Elliot didn't even look at me. He rushed to Kassie's side, his face a mask of panic. "Kassie! Are you okay? Did you get burned?"

He helped her up, checking her over with frantic eyes. He looked at me then, and the cold fury in his gaze struck me with more force than a physical blow.

"What did you do?" he snarled.

He took a step towards me, his body radiating menace. "Claire, I'm warning you. Don't you dare lay a hand on her."

His words were acid, dissolving the last vestiges of the man I thought I knew. He saw me as a threat. He was protecting her from me.

My eyes fell to the floor. My portfolio lay in a puddle of coffee. The postnuptial agreement, which I had tucked inside, was soaked and ruined.

A strange, bitter laugh escaped my lips. Perhaps it was for the best. A clean break. No ties. No money. Just freedom.

I cradled my burned hand, the physical pain a dim echo of the gaping wound in my soul. I turned and walked out of the penthouse, out of the building, out of the life that had been a beautiful, devastating lie.

I went straight to the city clerk's office.