His Stand-in Bride

The house was no longer a house. It was a cage with its bars rattling, and I was trapped inside.

By morning, word of Amelia’s disappearance had already slipped beyond our gates. Reporters clogged the street like vultures, black umbrellas blooming against the drizzle, cameras flashing whenever a servant dared open the door. They shouted questions, their voices overlapping in a sick frenzy: Is it true the bride is gone? Did she run away? Who is she with?

Through the heavy curtains, I could see them pressing against the railings, eyes sharp, mouths open like beaks tearing at carrion. And I… I was the prey, cornered, waiting for the strike.

Inside, the Mendes mansion shook with fury. My father’s voice thundered through the halls. Staff scurried in hushed panic, carrying trays they forgot to set down, dresses slipping from their arms, their footsteps quick and nervous against the marble floor. Every corner buzzed with whispers: Where is she? Who took her?

I found him in the study, hunched over the desk, phone clutched in his fist, his other hand clutching the edge as if the wood itself kept him from collapsing. His face was gray, sweat shining along his temples.

“Papa—”

He cut me off with a snarl, slamming the phone down so hard I flinched. “Do you understand what she’s done?” His eyes blazed, bloodshot. “Do you understand what’s at stake?”

I swallowed, throat dry. “We can delay—just for a few days, until we—”

“Delay?” His fist crashed against the desk. Papers scattered like startled birds. “There is no delay, Annie! Do you think Nate Reynolds will wait? Do you think the investors will show mercy?” His voice cracked, a raw edge of despair beneath the fury. “Delay means bankruptcy. Delay means humiliation. Delay means I rot in prison while this family name is dragged through the mud!”

The words struck like blows. My chest tightened, breath coming shallow.

He leaned forward, eyes boring into mine. “You think I don’t see the vultures already circling? They will tear us apart the second they smell weakness.”

I shook my head, tears stinging my eyes. “But I can’t—Papa, I can’t marry him. That’s Amelia’s place, not mine. I won’t live a lie.”

“You won’t—” He broke off, laughless, furious. He came around the desk, closing the distance in three heavy steps. His hands gripped my shoulders hard enough to bruise. “Listen to me, Annie. Would you watch your family lose everything? Would you watch me dragged from this house in handcuffs? Would you let your mother’s legacy burn to ash because of your sister’s selfishness?”

My lips trembled. His words carved deep, pulling at every thread of duty I’d carried since childhood. Mama’s voice rose in my head, soft but heavy as stone: Our name is a crown, Annie. But a crown can strangle just as easily as it can shine.

“I…” The word broke. I bit down hard, tasting salt and copper on my tongue. “Papa, please…”

His grip tightened. His eyes softened for the briefest second, just enough for me to see the cracks—the fear, the desperation. “I’m asking you, Annie. Save us.”

The fight drained from me like water through cupped hands. Terror coiled in my stomach, but above it loomed guilt, thick and suffocating. How could I refuse when every breath of my father’s sounded like a plea for survival?

When I finally nodded, his hands fell away, trembling. He exhaled, shoulders sagging, as if I had pulled him back from a cliff.

The preparations began almost immediately.

The seamstress bustled into Amelia’s room, pins clutched between her teeth, fabric draped over her arms. “Stand straight, Miss Annie. No, no—chin higher, shoulders back.” She tugged and tucked, her fingers swift and impersonal as she fitted the gown to me.

The satin was cold against my skin, too heavy, too tight. I stared at the mirror, but the woman looking back wasn’t me. Her lips were pale, her eyes wide and hollow, swallowed by lace and pearls. A ghost of someone else’s life.

Two maids whispered as they laced the corset. One’s hands shook, fumbling with the ribbons. “Careful!” the seamstress snapped, slapping them away. “We don’t have time for mistakes.”

Their eyes darted to me, wide with pity, but they said nothing.

I wanted to scream. To rip the dress off and run barefoot into the rain, to vanish before they could chain me with vows that weren’t mine. But I stood still, spine rigid, the crown of Mendes duty pressing tighter, choking the breath from me.

“Perfect,” the seamstress muttered, stepping back. She adjusted the veil, letting the lace spill like mist over my face. “You could be her twin.”

My chest ached. I pressed trembling fingers to the glass, tracing the reflection. The veil blurred my features, blotted me out until only the gown mattered.

“This isn’t me,” I whispered. My voice was muffled by the lace, the words trembling in the empty air. “This is Amelia’s wedding.”

From the doorway, a shadow fell across the room. My father stood there, face hard, eyes unreadable.

“No.” His voice was ice. “This is yours now.”