My Husband Cloned Me to Replace His First Love

The anemia hit me like a freight train two days later. I spent most of the morning in the living room, curled on the leather sofa with a blanket pulled to my chin, watching the gray Atlantic churn beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. My limbs felt like they were filled with sand. Every breath was work.

Hope floated into the room wearing cream cashmere, her recovery miraculously complete. She didn't acknowledge me. She never did unless Hunter was watching. She drifted to the coffee table, reaching for a magazine, her movements slow and deliberate, like a dancer hitting her marks.

Her elbow caught the edge of the ceramic bird.

Time fractured. The sculpture tipped, tumbled, and exploded against the marble floor. The sound was a gunshot. Blue shards scattered like shrapnel, glittering in the cold morning light.

I screamed. The sound tore out of me, raw and animal. I lunged off the sofa, my knees hitting the floor hard enough to bruise. My hands scrambled through the wreckage, cutting my palm on a jagged edge. Blood welled, mixing with the blue glaze.

"No, no, no—" My voice cracked. I cradled the largest piece, the bird's head, its painted eye staring up at me, accusing. *You let this happen.*

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" Hope's voice was a breathless gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. "I didn't see it, I swear, I—"

The door slammed open. Hunter's wheelchair skidded to a stop in the doorway, his eyes wild. But they didn't land on me. They locked on Hope, who had sunk into a chair, trembling, her face buried in her hands.

"What the hell happened?" he demanded.

"She's hysterical," Hope whispered, peeking through her fingers at me. "I barely touched the table and she just started screaming. Hunter, I'm scared."

I looked up at him, my bloodied hands still clutching the shards. "She broke it. She broke my mother's—"

"Enough!" His voice cracked like a whip. He rolled toward Hope, positioning himself between us like a human shield. "You're scaring her, Kennedy. Control yourself."

The room tilted. "Control myself? Hunter, this was the only thing I had left of—"

"It was a piece of pottery," he said, his tone flat, dismissive. He turned to the staff hovering in the hallway. "Someone sweep up this trash. Now."

Trash. He called my mother trash.

I stood slowly, the shard still in my hand, blood dripping onto the white rug. Hope watched me through her fingers, and for just a second, her mouth curved. Not a smile. A smirk.

She knew exactly what she'd done.

***

I spent the next week in the north turret studio, gluing the bird back together with shaking hands. The adhesive was cheap, drugstore-grade, leaving cloudy seams that ruined the glaze. It looked like a corpse held together with stitches. But I couldn't stop. I worked through the night, my fingers cramping, my vision blurring.

When Hunter found me, I was slumped over the worktable, the bird cradled in my lap.

"Kennedy." His voice was softer than I'd heard it in days. "I need you to come with me."

I looked up. He was dressed in a tuxedo, his hair freshly cut. He looked like the man from the magazines, the one who used to smile.

"There's a gala tonight. At The Pierre. Your debut as Mrs. Gibson."

Something in my chest flickered. A stupid, desperate ember of hope. Maybe this was his apology. Maybe he wanted to show me off, to claim me publicly, to prove I wasn't just a stand-in.

"I'll get ready," I said.

I chose a dress from the back of the closet, one I'd smuggled in before the makeover—a black silk gown with a plunging neckline and a slit up the thigh. I painted my lips red. I was done being Hope's shadow.

***

The Pierre's ballroom was a cathedral of wealth. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto a sea of tuxedos and gowns. I walked in on Hunter's arm, my chin high, ignoring the whispers that followed us like a wake.

Dylan Gibson intercepted us within minutes. He was drunk, his bow tie askew, his grin sharp as broken glass.

"Well, well. The scandalous Mrs. Gibson." He circled me like a shark. "Love the dress. Very... you."

"Dylan," Hunter said, a warning in his tone.

"Relax, cousin. I'm just making conversation." Dylan leaned in, his breath reeking of bourbon. "Hey, Kennedy, you know where your husband is right now?"

My stomach dropped. "He's right—"

"The VIP balcony." Dylan pointed upward with his champagne flute. "With Hope. They've been up there for an hour. Laughing. Looked real cozy."

I turned to Hunter. His jaw was tight, his fingers drumming that frantic beat on the armrest. He didn't deny it.

"Dylan, that's enough," he said.

"Oh, come on. She should know what she signed up for." Dylan grabbed a glass of red wine from a passing waiter and held it over my dress. "Oops."

The wine hit me like a slap, cold and wet, soaking through the silk. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Phones came out. Cameras flashed.

I looked at Hunter. Our eyes met. And he turned his wheelchair away.

He rolled toward the exit, leaving me standing in a puddle of wine and humiliation, while Dylan's laughter echoed off the vaulted ceiling.