Mistaken Identity: Loving The Wrong Twin Sister

Ava Miller POV

Dust choked the air, thick and acrid.

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder with every heartbeat.

I stood frozen on the sidewalk, watching the man I married bleed for another woman.

Donovan was moving before the dust had even settled.

He shoved a heavy steel pipe off his leg, ignoring the dark stain spreading on his own trousers.

He didn't check his own injuries. He didn't even look for me.

He was frantically cupping Chloe's face, his hands shaking.

"Chloe! Chloe, look at me!"

She was unconscious, her body limp like a ragdoll.

Blood was pooling under her head, a stark crimson against the gray concrete.

I walked toward them, my movements mechanical.

My heels crunched on broken glass, a sickening sound in the sudden silence.

Donovan looked up.

His face was a mask of gray dust and red smears, his eyes wild.

"Help her!" he screamed at me, his voice raw.

I knelt down beside the woman who had ruined my life.

I checked her pulse.

It was there, but it was weak. Thready.

The ambulance arrived two minutes later, chaos descending in flashing lights.

I rode in the front.

Donovan rode in the back, holding her hand, whispering prayers he never said for me.

At the hospital, chaos reigned.

Doctors shouted codes I didn't understand, their voices sharp with urgency.

Donovan was pacing the waiting room like a caged tiger, his bloodied shirt clinging to his chest.

A doctor came out, looking grim.

"She's losing blood fast," he said, his tone grave. "We need an immediate transfusion, but the blood bank is critically low on AB Negative. It's rare. We're calling other hospitals, but time is—"

Donovan grabbed the doctor by the collar, slamming him against the wall.

"Find it!" he roared, the sound echoing down the sterile hall. "I will buy this entire goddamn hospital if I have to! Just find it!"

I stood up, my legs trembling slightly.

"I'm AB Negative," I said.

The room went silent.

Donovan turned to look at me, his grip on the doctor loosening.

His eyes were wide, filled with disbelief.

"You?" he asked.

"Take it," I told the doctor, rolling up my sleeve. "Take as much as you need."

They rushed me to a chair next to her bed.

They hooked me up.

I watched my red blood flow through the clear tube.

It was draining out of me.

Going into her.

It felt twistedly poetic.

I had given my life, my youth, and my heart to this marriage. And now, I was giving my literal blood to the woman who had destroyed it.

Donovan came in while I was squeezing the stress ball, pumping life into his mistress.

He stood by the bed, his gaze shifting between Chloe's pale face and the tube connecting us.

"Why?" he asked.

His voice was hoarse, broken.

"Why are you doing this? After everything?"

I looked up at the sterile ceiling tiles, counting the dots.

"I didn't want you to be sad," I said softly.

It was the truth.

If she died, she would become a martyr. He would mourn her forever. He would never let me go, binding me to his grief.

If she lived, he would have her. And I could finally leave.

Donovan reached out.

He took my free hand, his fingers warm against my cold skin.

"Thank you, Isabella," he whispered.

He squeezed my hand.

For the first time in three years, he looked at me with something that wasn't hate. It looked almost like... regret.

The doctor poked his head in.

"She's awake, Mr. Blackwood."

Donovan dropped my hand as if it were a burning coal.

He turned and ran out of the room without a backward glance.

I was left alone with the needle in my arm.

I felt cold.

So incredibly cold.

An hour later, I was discharged.

I felt dizzy, lightheaded from the blood loss, but I walked to Chloe's room.

I wanted to tell Donovan I was going home. I wanted to tell him it was over.

I stopped at the door.

Chloe was crying, her voice pitched high and frantic.

"She looks so smug, Donovan!" she sobbed. "She looked at me like she wanted me to die! She probably paid the construction workers to drop it!"

"Chloe, that's crazy," Donovan said, his voice gentle, soothing. "She gave you her blood. She saved you."

"She's manipulating you!" Chloe shrieked. "She wants you to think she's a saint! Prove you love me, Donovan. Please. I'm so scared of her."

There was a long, heavy silence.

Then Donovan spoke, his voice dropping an octave.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Get rid of her," Chloe whispered, the malice dripping from her tone. "Not... not kill her. But show her she means nothing. Show her she's trash compared to me."

I held my breath, my hand hovering over the door handle.

"Okay," Donovan said.

"Okay."

He walked out of the room.

He saw me standing there.

His face had hardened into a mask of stone. The regret was gone.

"Come with me," he said.

He drove us to the cliffs.

The ocean was raging below, the water black and freezing against the jagged rocks.

"Get out," he commanded.

We stood on the edge of the pier, the wooden planks slick with sea spray.

The wind whipped my hair across my face, stinging my eyes.

Donovan looked at me.

There was conflict in his eyes, a flicker of humanity, but it was buried under duty. Under his sickness for her.

"She needs to know she's safe," he said, as if trying to convince himself.

I didn't say anything.

I just looked at him, waiting.

He put his hands on my shoulders.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Then he pushed me.

I fell backward into the void.

The water hit me with the force of a concrete wall.

The cold stole the air from my lungs instantly.

I sank.

Saltwater filled my nose, burning like acid.

I didn't fight.

I was so tired.

Strong hands grabbed my coat before the darkness could take me completely.

Donovan's bodyguards hauled me out.

They threw me onto the wooden planks like a sack of unwanted refuse.

I coughed up water, shivering violently, my body convulsing.

Donovan was standing over me.

He looked pale.

He looked like he might vomit.

He had done it.

He had proven his loyalty to the mistress by trying to drown the wife.

"Take her home," he told the guards, his voice trembling.

He walked away.

I lay on the wet wood, shaking uncontrollably.

And in the cold, I realized something.

He didn't push Isabella.

He pushed me.

Ava.

And Ava was done.