My Husband Died After I Was Used as a Substitute for My Sister

"Barry!" I screamed, sprinting past the wrought-iron cemetery gates.

My flats slipped in the wet mud. I stumbled, righted myself, and ran straight into the thick gray fog.

"Barry, stop!"

I spun in circles. The street was entirely empty. No dark trench coat. No broad shoulders. The mist swallowed the landscape, turning the trees into blurry shadows.

"Where are you?" I yelled at a passing car.

The driver didn't even slow down.

I ran toward the corner store. An old man stood under the awning, smoking a cigarette.

"Did you see him?" I asked, grabbing the man's sleeve. "A tall man? Dark coat?"

The man pulled his arm away. "Nobody came this way, lady."

I checked the alleyways. I ran down the block until my lungs burned and my legs shook. Nothing. Had I imagined it? Had the grief finally cracked my mind?

***

I drove back to the silent house. I sat on the living room rug, my wet clothes soaking into the carpet. I picked up his unlocked phone. My thumb hovered over the hidden folder.

I tapped the video file sitting right next to Amanda's ballet photo.

The screen flickered. A brightly lit stage appeared. A girl spun in a white tutu with intricate silver embroidery across the bodice.

My stomach dropped. The air left my lungs.

That was my dress. The exact custom gown I wore to the Paris International Competition six years ago. Barry had bought it for me. He claimed he designed it himself to celebrate my talent.

The camera panned to the audience. Barry stood in the front row. He wasn't looking at the stage like a casual observer. His eyes were wide, soft, entirely devoted.

"Brava, Amanda," his recorded voice cheered over the music. "You're perfect."

I dropped the phone. It hit the floorboards with a sharp crack.

"He didn't love me," I whispered to the empty walls.

I stared at the paused frame of Amanda's face. She had the same dark hair. The same build. The same arch in her feet.

Because she vanished as a child, he searched for a replacement. He found someone who danced like her. Looked like her.

"A stand-in," I said aloud, a bitter laugh tearing from my throat. "I was a fucking prop."

He never loved my dancing. He loved that I reminded him of the girl he actually wanted. Every time he kissed me, every time he praised my performances, he was looking right through me. He was picturing her.

I needed answers right now. I grabbed the phone and opened his cloud backup. A recent location ping flashed on the screen from yesterday. The Grand Plaza Hotel.

I drove straight there. I parked my car near the loading dock, hiding behind a row of industrial dumpsters. The stench of garbage filled the air, but I barely noticed.

The heavy metal service door swung open.

Two figures stepped out into the damp alley.

Amanda leaned against a tall man, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist. The man kissed the top of her head.

Barry.

He was alive. Not a single scratch on his face. He wore a crisp black shirt and slacks. No bandages. No casts.

"You faked it," I said, stepping out of the shadows.

Barry jumped back. Amanda shrieked and hid behind his shoulder.

"Flora," Barry said. His jaw tightened. He didn't look guilty. He looked annoyed.

"You faked your own death?" I shouted, marching toward them. "To be with her?"

"Keep your voice down," Barry hissed, scanning the empty street. "You weren't supposed to find out."

"I planned your funeral this morning!" I screamed. "I stood by an empty grave while my parents told me I murdered you!"

Amanda peeked out. "Barry, make her leave. She's going to ruin the plan."

"Shut up, Amanda," I snapped. I lunged forward and grabbed Barry's collar. "You used me for years. You dressed me up like her. You made me wear that silver tutu!"

He yanked my hands off his shirt. "You were convenient, Flora. That's it."

"Convenient?" I repeated, my voice cracking.

"I loved her first," Barry stated coldly. "When she disappeared, I needed someone to fill the void. You fit the description. Now she's back. I don't need you anymore."

"So you stage a car crash? You let my parents blame me?"

"It was the easiest way out of the marriage," he said. "Now let it go and walk away."

"I am calling the police," I pulled my phone from my pocket. "I am telling everyone."

Barry's eyes darkened. "No, you aren't."

He shoved me backward. Hard.

My foot caught on the edge of a broken concrete block. I lost my balance.

I fell backward. My stomach slammed directly into the sharp edge of the curb.

A tearing agony ripped through my lower abdomen.

"Flora!" Barry yelled, taking a half-step forward.

"Don't touch me!" I shrieked. I curled into a tight ball. Warm liquid soaked rapidly through my jeans.

"Barry, we have to go," Amanda pleaded, frantically tugging his arm. "If the police see you, you'll go to jail for fraud. Leave her!"

He stared at the blood pooling on the asphalt beneath me. He looked at Amanda, then back at me.

"Let's go," he muttered.

They sprinted down the alley, disappearing around the corner.

I lay on the cold ground, clutching my stomach.

"My baby," I sobbed to the empty pavement. "Please, no. Someone help me."

The edges of my vision faded to black.

***

The steady beep of a heart monitor forced my eyes open.

White walls. A sterile chemical smell. I touched my flat stomach. The agonizing emptiness in my womb confirmed the worst. My child was gone.

"Tears won't bring the kid back."

I whipped my head toward the window.

A man leaned against the sill. He wore a tailored black suit. His jawline was sharp, his dark eyes entirely unreadable.

"Who are you?" I asked, my voice hoarse and broken.

"Carton," he replied smoothly.

Carton. The ruthless heir to the global conglomerate that had been trying to crush Barry's family business for the last decade.

"Get out of my room," I croaked, pointing at the door.

He didn't move an inch. "I saw what happened in the alley, Flora."

I gripped the thin hospital bedsheets. "Did you call the ambulance?"

"I did," he confirmed. He walked to the foot of my bed, his gaze piercing mine. "Your husband faked his death, stole your life, and left you to bleed out in the dirt."

"I don't need your pity," I spat, fresh tears burning my eyes.

"I'm not offering pity," Carton said, his tone flat and businesslike. "I'm offering a partnership."

"A partnership?" I scoffed. "With my husband's worst enemy?"

"Why would you help me?" I demanded, wiping a tear from my cheek. "You don't know me."

"I know Barry Gaines," Carton replied, his voice dropping an octave. "I know he is a coward. I know he thinks he can play God with people's lives and face zero consequences."

"He took my child," I whispered, the reality crashing over me again. "He left me there to die."

"And he will pay for that," Carton said. "But only if you stop crying and start fighting."

"I have nothing left," I argued. "My adoptive parents hate me. My husband abandoned me. I'm entirely alone."

"Good," Carton said, a dark smile playing on his lips. "That makes you dangerous."

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek black business card. He tossed it onto my lap.

"Flora," he said softly, "since they destroyed you with their own hands, I can help you take back everything they own, piece by piece."

I stared at the card, the monitor picking up the sudden race of my heartbeat. Could I really trust the devil to help me destroy my demons?