When My Fiancé’s Twin Claimed Me as His Bride

I rode the cab back to the estate in total silence. The rain had finally stopped, but the sky was a bruised, heavy purple. I paid the driver with damp bills and walked up to the towering iron gates. I pressed the intercom buzzer.

The gates clicked open instantly. He was watching the cameras.

I walked up the long driveway. My boots crunched loudly on the wet gravel. I stepped into the grand foyer. The house was dead quiet. It smelled like his expensive cedar cologne and stale air.

I found him in the living room. His wheelchair was parked dead center on the rug, facing the doorway. He sat perfectly rigid. His knuckles were bone-white against the armrests. His chest rose and fell in jagged, violent breaths. Fury radiated from him in dark, suffocating waves.

"Where did you go?" His voice was a low, dangerous scrape.

I didn't flinch. I let my shoulders drop and kept my hands loose at my sides. "I panicked," I said softly.

His jaw ticked. He didn't blink. "You left the property."

"I went to the shed," I whispered, letting my voice tremble just a little. "I saw what was inside. I freaked out. I just started running."

He stared at me. His eyes were dark, empty voids. "And then?"

"And then I stopped. I stood in the cold and I thought about you." I took a slow step forward. "I thought about everything you’ve been through since the accident. The pain. The trauma. I overreacted. I shouldn't have run away."

I walked right up to his wheelchair. I knelt on the cold hardwood floor. I reached out and gently placed my hands over his rigid fists. His skin was ice cold.

"I want to be here," I lied. The words tasted like ash in my mouth, but I kept my tone perfectly sweet. "I want to be here for you. Truly here."

He leaned forward. He searched my face. His dark eyes scanned my cheeks, my mouth, my pupils. He was looking for a crack. He was looking for the lie.

I didn't give him one. I kept my thumbnail pressed hard into my palm. The sharp, grounding pain kept my eyes soft and steady.

The tension finally snapped. He let out a ragged breath and pulled me hard against his chest. His arms wrapped around my ribs like a vice. It was a possessive, crushing grip.

"You're mine," he whispered fiercely into my hair. "You came back to me."

"I did," I murmured.

Over his shoulder, I stared at the blank wall. My expression didn't change at all. My heart was a block of ice.

Over the next few days, I went to work. I moved through the estate like a ghost. Every afternoon, when he took his heavy pain pills and fell asleep, I pulled out my phone. I was methodical. I took clear photos of the biometric lock panels in the foyer and the kitchen. I slipped into his dark study and photographed the frantic, obsessive pages of his journal. I went back to the shed and forced myself to document the horror inside. I screenshotted the call logs on the house phone, proving how every outgoing number was blocked.

I needed to get the evidence out.

On Thursday, I asked to go to the library. I told him I wanted to check out some books on physical therapy and indoor gardening. He agreed, but he came with me.

We took the modified van into town. Inside the quiet library, he parked his wheelchair near the magazine racks. He had a clear, unobstructed view of the computer stations.

I sat at a public desktop. I could feel his eyes burning into the back of my neck. I kept my posture totally relaxed. I opened a web browser and quickly created a burner email address. My fingers flew across the keyboard. I uploaded every single photo and screenshot to a hidden cloud account.

I closed the tabs, wiped the browser history, and stood up. As I walked down the aisle to find him, a woman in a tan coat brushed past me. She was holding her phone.

"Excuse me," I whispered. I grabbed her wrist lightly. She looked startled. "Please. Just one text. It's an emergency."

She saw the absolute desperation in my eyes. She glanced at Colten across the room, then handed me the phone under the cover of a tall bookshelf.

I typed Diana’s number from memory. *I'm okay. Watch for my signal.*

I hit send, deleted the thread, and handed it back. "Thank you," I breathed.

I walked back to Colten with three heavy books in my arms. I smiled down at him. "Ready to go home?"

He nodded, completely oblivious.

The final piece was the trap itself. I needed a stage. I needed an audience.

That night, I cooked steaks. I poured him a glass of expensive red wine. The dining room felt like a tomb, but I filled it with warm, easy chatter. I asked about his preferences for the house decor. I deferred to his opinions. I played the devoted, submissive fiancée. I made it slightly imperfect, just enough to seem totally real.

"You know," I said casually, cutting my steak. "I was thinking about us today."

He paused, his wine glass halfway to his mouth. "What about us?"

"About the future." I set my knife down and looked at him. "You shouldn't be hidden away in this house. You survived. You’re strong. You deserve to be celebrated."

He narrowed his eyes. The glass hovered in the air. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying we should get married," I said softly. "Properly. A real wedding. A grand one."

The silence in the room grew heavy. The grandfather clock ticked in the hallway.

"A grand wedding," he repeated. His voice was cautious.

"Yes. At a luxury venue. Somewhere overlooking Elliott Bay." I leaned forward, my eyes shining with fake excitement. "We should invite everyone. Two hundred guests. High society. The whole city should see us together. They should see that you won."

I used that word on purpose. *Won.*

I watched it hit him. His posture shifted. The suspicion in his dark eyes melted into a greedy, hungry thrill. Colten didn't just want me. He wanted to own what Kane had, and he wanted everyone to know it. He wanted the public victory.

He set his wine glass down. A slow, arrogant smile spread across his gaunt face. He was drunk on the illusion of total control.

"Elliott Bay," he murmured. "Two hundred guests."

"I'll plan the whole thing," I promised. "You won't have to lift a finger. Just show up and be my husband."

He reached across the table and grabbed my hand. His grip was tight, almost painful. "Okay," he said. His eyes gleamed with triumph. "Let's do it. Let's show them."

"I can't wait," I smiled back.

He thought he was building a throne. He had no idea I was building a guillotine.