My Husband Cloned Me to Replace His First Love

The red wine stain hadn't come out of the black silk, but I didn't care. I had left the dress on the floor of my closet, a crumpled monument to my naivety. The Kennedy who believed in fairy tales died at The Pierre. The woman who woke up this morning was interested only in survival.

My phone buzzed against my thigh—a single vibration. Savannah.

I moved to the window. Down at the main gate, a chaotic scene was unfolding. Savannah’s beat-up Honda was parked diagonally across the entrance, smoke billowing from the hood. She was waving her arms, screaming at the stone-faced security team, demanding water, a mechanic, and a lawyer. It was a performance worthy of an Oscar, and it had drawn every guard away from the main house.

I turned and sprinted for the West Wing.

The heavy oak doors of the family archives were usually locked, but I’d lifted the key from the housekeeper’s ring while she was distracted by Hope’s latest feigned migraine. Inside, the air smelled of dust and secrets. I didn't have much time.

Arthur Gibson kept records on everyone. I bypassed the ledgers and went straight to the personnel files, my fingers flying over the tabs. *Gibson. Reynolds. Mitchell.*

I pulled the folder. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Hunter had told me Hope spent five years in a Swiss sanitarium, recovering from the trauma of the accident. A martyr’s exile.

I flipped the page. There were no medical records. Instead, there were bank statements. Credit card receipts. *Milan. Paris. Dubai.* Dates that matched her supposed incarceration lined up perfectly with purchases at Versace and Cartier. She hadn't been in a cell; she’d been on a five-year shopping spree funded by an account labeled "External Consultations."

She wasn't a victim. She was a parasite.

I shoved the papers into my waistband just as the floorboards creaked in the hallway. I slipped out the side door, adrenaline sour on my tongue.

***

Hunter was in the library, staring at the rain. He didn't turn when I entered. The silence in the room was heavy, suffocating.

"Milan," I said, tossing the crumpled bank statements onto his desk. They slid across the mahogany, coming to rest under his hand.

He looked down, his brow furrowing. "What is this?"

"Proof," I said, my voice trembling with the force of my anger. "She wasn't in a sanitarium, Hunter. She was in Europe, spending your family's money while you sat in this chair rotting away in guilt."

Hunter picked up a receipt. His eyes scanned the dates, the locations. For a second, I saw the crack in his armor—a flicker of doubt, sharp and terrified. But then he looked at me, and the wall slammed back down.

"Where did you get these?"

"Does it matter?" I stepped closer. "She lied to you. She’s been lying for five years."

"You broke into my grandfather's archives," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low rumble. He crumpled the paper in his fist. "You're desperate, Kennedy. I knew you were jealous, but fabricating evidence? This is a new low, even for a Reynolds."

"Fabricating?" I laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. "Look at the account numbers! It’s the truth!"

"It's poison!" he shouted, slamming his hand on the desk. "Just like your father. Twisted, manipulative, and willing to say anything to change the narrative. Hope is fragile. She has suffered enough without you trying to destroy her reputation."

He rolled toward me, snatching the phone from my hand before I could react.

"Hey!"

"No more poison," he hissed. "You’re grounded, Kennedy. The gates are locked. No visitors. No internet. If you want to act like a child, I’ll treat you like one."

He wheeled past me, throwing my phone into the trash compactor by the bar. I watched my connection to the outside world shatter, realizing with cold clarity that I wasn't just a wife anymore. I was a prisoner.

***

Three days of silence. I ate trays left at my door. I watched the cameras watch me.

But Hunter had forgotten one variable: the grocery delivery. Savannah, bless her stubborn heart, had bribed the delivery boy. Buried at the bottom of a bag of arugula was a burner phone and a note: *Midnight. The Garden. He agreed.*

At 11:55 PM, I slipped out the French doors. The night air was wet and cold, biting through my thin sweater. I found Arthur Gibson sitting on the same stone bench where Hunter had once critiqued my art. The patriarch looked like a gargoyle carved from the darkness itself, his cane resting between his knees.

"You have your mother's eyes," Arthur rasped, not looking up. "And your father's reckless streak."

"I have the truth," I said, stepping into the moonlight. I held out the second set of documents I’d kept hidden—the ones detailing the embezzlement, the funds siphoned directly from the Gibson charity accounts into Hope's personal LLC.

Arthur took the papers. He didn't need a flashlight; he seemed to absorb the information through his fingertips.

"She's stealing from you," I said. "She didn't save Hunter. She's bleeding him dry."

Arthur looked up, his eyes cold and ancient. "I know."

The wind went out of me. "You... you know? Then why—"

"Because Hunter needs the illusion more than he needs the money," Arthur said, his voice dry as dead leaves. "He is broken. Hope is the glue holding his ego together. If I shatter that, I shatter him."

"He's already shattered!" I snapped. "He's turning into a monster because of her lies. I want out, Arthur. You owe me. You promised my mother a favor before she died. I'm calling it in."

The old man studied me, a flicker of respect lighting his gaze. He appreciated leverage. He appreciated ruthlessness.

"An annulment," he mused. "Clean. Quiet."

"Effective immediately."

"I can't grant it based on numbers," Arthur said, tapping the papers. "Hunter won't care about the money. He thinks he's buying love. To free him—and yourself—you must destroy the illusion of the love itself. Prove she is unfaithful. Prove she despises him."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Break his heart, Kennedy. Do that, and I will set you free."