My Husband Cloned Me to Replace His First Love

The smell of ammonia was the first warning, sharp and chemical, stinging the back of my throat. I sat in the salon chair that had been wheeled into the East Wing, watching a woman I’d never met mix a bowl of sludge that looked nothing like my usual platinum toner.

"Mr. Gibson was very specific," the stylist, Elise, murmured, avoiding my eyes in the mirror. "He wants a warmer tone. Something... softer."

"I didn't ask for soft," I said, my fingers gripping the armrests. "And I certainly didn't ask for a wardrobe overhaul."

I gestured to the garment rack behind her. Gone were my structured blazers, the leather, the sharp silhouettes that served as my armor against the Upper East Side. In their place hung a row of ghosts—chiffon, silk, and cashmere in varying shades of pastel blue, cream, and blush. It was a wardrobe for a porcelain doll, not a woman.

"Please, Mrs. Gibson," Elise said, her brush hovering. "He insisted. He said he wanted to see the woman beneath the reputation."

The fight went out of me. *The woman beneath the reputation.*

I thought of the night in the garden, the way he’d looked at my sketchpad. *Darkness has weight.* Maybe this wasn't control. Maybe he was trying to scrub away the "wild child" paint my father had splattered all over me. Maybe he wanted to see *me*.

I closed my eyes and let her apply the dye. When I opened them an hour later, a stranger stared back. The honey-blonde waves framed a face that looked younger, more fragile. I put on the dress Elise selected—a powder-blue midi dress with a high collar and lace sleeves. It was modest, demure, and completely alien. But as I smoothed the fabric, a treacherous seed of hope took root. I looked like a wife. A real one.

***

The dining room was staged like a theater set. The lights were dimmed, the crystal gleaming. Hunter was already there, positioned at the head of the table. He was wearing a tuxedo, his hair slicked back, looking devastatingly handsome and terrifyingly tense. His fingers were doing that thing again—*tap-tap-tap* against the mahogany armrest.

When I walked in, his head snapped up. His eyes widened, pupils blowing out until they were swallowed by black. For a moment, he looked like a man starving.

"Perfect," he breathed.

My heart did a traitorous flip. I walked toward him, a smile tugging at my lips. "I feel like I'm in costume, Hunter. This isn't really—"

"Sit," he commanded, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He checked his watch. "She's here."

The double doors opened.

The air left the room. It didn't rush out; it vanished, sucked into a vacuum of pure, unadulterated horror.

The woman who glided into the room was beautiful in a way that made your teeth ache. Delicate features, wide, innocent eyes, and an aura of tragic fragility. But that wasn't what stopped my heart.

It was her hair. Honey-blonde waves, falling exactly to her collarbone.

It was her dress. Powder-blue chiffon. High collar. Lace sleeves.

Hope Mitchell stood in the doorway, and I was looking in a mirror.

The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. The stylist. The specific instructions. The "softer" look. He hadn't been cleaning me up. He had been painting over me. I wasn't a wife. I was a canvas he had primed to look like *her*.

"Hunter," Hope whispered, her voice breathless and sweet, like spun sugar. "I'm home."

Hunter didn't look at me. Not once. His gaze was fixed on her with an intensity that burned. "Welcome back, Hope."

I sat frozen, a statue in a blue dress, while they played out their reunion. I was the ghost now. The stand-in. The placeholder.

Then, the performance shifted. Hope took a step forward, swayed, and brought a hand to her forehead. It was theatrical, almost too perfect. "I... I feel dizzy."

She crumpled.

"Hope!" Hunter’s shout tore his throat. He lunged forward in his chair, the motor whining as he sped toward her.

***

The private clinic on the estate grounds smelled of antiseptic and money. Hope lay on the gurney, pale and unconscious, hooked up to monitors that beeped a steady, rhythmic drama.

"Her levels are critically low," Dr. Hayes said, her voice tight. "She needs a transfusion immediately. We don't have enough of her type on hand."

Hunter spun his chair around to face me. The panic in his eyes had hardened into something cold and sharp as a scalpel. "You're O-negative. It was in your medical file."

I took a step back, my back hitting the cold wall. "I'm anemic, Hunter. You know that. I can't—"

"She needs blood," he snarled, cutting me off. "Give it to her."

I looked at the woman on the bed—the woman whose face I was currently wearing. "You want me to bleed for her? After you turned me into her clone? No."

Hunter rolled closer, trapping me against the wall. He lowered his voice, and the sound was more terrifying than his shouting. "Your father signed a very specific contract, Kennedy. It includes a clause about cooperation. If you walk out that door, I call the bank. I call the press. Your father won't just be bankrupt; he’ll be in prison for fraud by morning."

My stomach hollowed out. He wasn't asking for a favor. He was collecting a debt.

"You bastard," I whispered, tears pricking my eyes—not from sadness, but from rage.

"Sit in the chair," he ordered, pointing to the donor seat next to Hope's bed.

I sat. I rolled up the lace sleeve of the dress he bought me. I looked away as the needle pierced my skin, a sharp, violating pinch. I watched the dark red tube fill, my life force draining out of me to sustain the woman he actually loved.

Across the room, Hunter held Hope’s hand, stroking her knuckles with a tenderness he had never, not once, shown me. He didn't look at me. He just watched the bag fill, making sure he got every drop he paid for.