A Substitute Bride For The Ruthless Billionaire

~ CAMILLA

The white dress mocked me from where it hung on the door.

I had been staring at it for ten minutes now, watching how the afternoon light caught the intricate beading along the bodice. Bella Wright, my mother, had been very particular when she picked out the dress worth a lot of money. As if the price tag could make me feel differently about the dress and the entire situation.

My phone buzzed for the fifteenth time in the last hour. I didn't need to check it to know it was her who had been calling. The wedding was supposed to start twenty minutes ago, and Pamela, my identical twin sister and the actual bride, was nowhere to be found.

I pressed my palm against the cool glass of Pamela's apartment window and looked down at the street below. Manhattan moved at its usual frantic pace, oblivious to the disaster unfolding in this luxury high-rise. Yellow cabs honked at pedestrians who think they own the crosswalk. A street vendor argued with someone over the price of a hot dog. Life continued, completely unconcerned that my twin sister had vanished on what's supposed to be the most important day of her life.

"Pick up, pick up, pick up," I muttered, dialing Pamela's number for the hundredth time.

Nothing. Just that smooth, automated voice telling me the person I'm trying to reach is unavailable.

I turned away from the window, surveying the chaos of Pamela's bedroom. Clothes everywhere; bright colors and expensive fabrics that made my eyes hurt just by looking at them. My sister had always been the vibrant one, the twin who turned heads when she walked into a room. I'm the shadow, the afterthought, the one people forget was even there.

The irony wasn't lost on me.

My own apartment across town was filled with dark, moody artwork and secondhand furniture that I had painted black or deep purple. I spent my evenings creating abstract pieces that most people didn't understand, using colors that Pamela once described as ‘aggressively depressing.’  We shared the same face, the same DNA, but we've never shared anything else that mattered.

Which made what Mom was about to ask me even more insane. She had brought it up earlier in the day and I had hoped it wouldn't resurface. 

My phone rang. It wasn't Pamela like I'd hoped, but Mom.

"Camilla." Her voice was sharp, brittle. "Where are you?"

“I'm at Pamela's apartment. Mom, she's not here. Her passport is missing, and…”

"I know." The way she said it made my stomach drop. "I've known for three days."

I sank into Pamela's unmade bed, my hand gripping the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. "You knew?"

“I suspected it since Tuesday after we discussed over the phone and she said she couldn't go through with it. And then,  she didn't come home afterwards.” 

"And you didn't think to mention this to anyone?" My voice raised despite my efforts to stay calm. "You let everyone prepare for a wedding that you knew wasn't going to happen?"

"I thought I could fix it." Mom's voice cracked, and I hated that sound. I hated hearing her vulnerable because it meant something was very, very wrong. "I thought I could convince her to come back. But she wouldn't answer my calls now. She's shut off her phone, changed her number, something. And Camilla, we're out of time."

Through the phone, I heard voices in the background. Angry, impatient voices.

"Where are you?" I ask, though I already knew.

"The Bellingham estate. The guests are getting restless. Arthur is... he's not happy." She paused, and I could picture her perfectly standing in some marble hallway, wearing that cream-colored dress she bought specifically for this wedding, her face a mask of controlled panic. "Your father is in the hospital and you know that. His condition got worse last night. The doctors said we needed to make decisions about his treatment, but we can't afford to.” Her voice broke completely this time. "We can't afford anything anymore, Camilla. The business is gone. The accounts are frozen. If this marriage doesn't happen, we lose everything."

My throat felt tight. "What are you saying?"

But I knew what she was saying. I've known since I walked into Pamela's apartment and saw that wedding dress hanging on the door like a ghost.

"You have to do it." Mom's words came out in a rush. "You have to take her place. Just for now, just until we can find Pamela and figure out what's really going on. Arthur won't know the difference. You're identical twins. You—”

"Mom, stop." I was on my feet now, pacing across Pamela's bedroom, my heart hammering against my ribs. "You're asking me to commit fraud. To lie to one of the most powerful men in New York. Do you understand how insane that is?"

"I'm asking you to save your family."

The words hit me like a physical blow.

I thought about Dad in that hospital bed, his skin gray and papery, his hands shaking when he tried to hold mine. I thought about the pharmacy bills stacked on our kitchen counter at home, each one marked with red stamps that say URGENT and FINAL NOTICE. I thought about Mom's face when she had to sell her mother's wedding ring last month just to make rent.

"This isn't fair," I whispered, voice cracking.

"No." Mom's voice was cold now, practical. "It's not fair. But it's where we’re at. And I need you to decide, right now, whether you're going to help us or watch everything fall apart."

I looked at the wedding dress again. It was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache. Pamela would have looked stunning in it. She always looked stunning.

I looked nothing like the kind of woman who wore a dress like that.

"I can't do this," I said, but my voice sounds far away, like it belonged to someone else.

“Camilla.” My mother called out. It was a silent command.

"I need an hour." I was moving now, gathering things from Pamela's bathroom, her closet, her jewelry box. "Send me the address. Send me everything I need to know about Arthur Bellingham. And Mom?" I catch sight of my reflection in Pamela's full-length mirror. Same brown hair, same sharp cheekbones, same wide sea blue eyes that people say look haunted. "If I do this, if I marry him, you make sure you find Pamela. You figure out where she went and why. Because I'm not living her life forever."

"Of course." Mom's relief was palpable even through the phone. "Of course, darling. We'll find her. I promise."

She's lying. I could always tell when she was lying.

I hung up and stared at the dress for one more long moment. Then I reached for it, feeling the weight of the fabric in my hands, smooth and heavy like something precious yet terrible all at once.

My phone buzzed with a text from Mom: "The car will be there in fifteen minutes. Arthur Bellingham is a twenty-eight year old billionaire, who lost his parents at thirteen. He's cold. Doesn't trust easily. Pamela met him through business connections I suppose. He proposed six months ago. The arrangement was meant to benefit both families. That's all you need to know."

That's all you need to know.

As if marrying a stranger while pretending to be my sister could ever be summarized in a text message.

I pulled off my jeans and t-shirt; my uniform, my armor—and stood in Pamela's bedroom in just my underwear, staring at the wedding dress like it might come alive and swallow me whole.

Somewhere in the apartment, there was a box of Pamela's things. I found it in her closet, buried under shoes that cost more than my monthly rent. Inside are photographs, letters, ticket stubs from trips I didn't know she'd taken. And at the bottom, wrapped in tissue paper, was a small velvet box.

I opened it.

Inside was a ring. Not an engagement ring. This was older, more delicate. An heirloom, maybe. And tucked underneath it is a note in Pamela's handwriting: "For emergencies. Worth approximately $50K. Don't tell Mom."

My sister planned her escape. She knew she was leaving, and she left me a safety net.

Or maybe she left herself one, and I just happened to find it.

I slipped the ring onto my finger and started getting dressed for a wedding that wasn't mine.

The dress fit perfectly. Of course it did. We were the same size, the same shape, the same everything on the outside.

A knock at the door made me jump. "Ms. Wright? The car is here."

I take one last look around Pamela's apartment. This space that held all her secrets, all the pieces of her life that I never knew or understood. Then I grabbed the small clutch purse Mom sent over yesterday (Pamela's favorite, she'd said) and headed toward the door.

My reflection caught in the hallway mirror as I passed. I look exactly like my sister. Same face, same dress, same everything.

But my eyes gave me away. They always had. Pamela's eyes sparkled with confidence and easy charm. Mine looked like I was about to walk into a trap.

Which, I suppose, I was.

The elevator ride down felt endless. The driver opened the car door for me, and I slid into the backseat of a town car that probably costs more than everything I owned combined.

"The Bellingham estate," he said, as if I might have forgotten.

As we pulled away from the curb, my phone buzzed one more time. Unknown number.

I almost didn't open it. But something made me tap the screen.

The message was short: "How's married life going to be, Camilla? Enjoy the mansion."

My blood turned to ice.

Someone knew. Someone knew I wasn't my sister, Pamela.

I stared at the message until my vision blurred, until the Manhattan streets outside the window became a smear of color and noise. Then I deleted it and powered down my phone, my hands shaking so badly I almost dropped it.

The driver caught my eye in the rearview mirror. "Everything alright, miss?"

I forced a smile. "Perfect. Just nervous."

"The first wedding is always the hardest," he said with a light chuckle.

I didn't correct him. I just closed my eyes and tried to remember how to breathe.

By the time we reached the Bellingham estate, I had convinced myself that the message was a mistake. Wrong number. Coincidence. Anything but what it actually was—proof that this plan was already falling apart.

The estate was massive. Not just big, but intimidating in its size and grandeur. Manicured gardens stretched as far as I could see. The mansion itself looked like something out of a movie. All white stone and tall windows and architecture that screamed old money.

Staff members swarmed the car as soon as we stopped. Someone opened my door, someone else took my small bag, and a woman with kind eyes and an efficient manner guided me toward a side entrance.

"You're late," she said, but not unkindly. "Your mother is in the bridal suite. She's been waiting."

I nodded, unable to speak.

The bridal suite was on the second floor, down a hallway lined with artistic and vibrant paintings. Mom was there, looking exactly as I imagined—beautiful yet,  terrified.

"Camilla." She grabbed my hands. "You look perfect. You look just like her."

"I am her. Remember?" I retorted not so enthusiastically.

Mom's eyes shimmered with tears, she refused to let fall. "I know this is horrible, what I'm asking you to do. But—.”

"Don't." I pulled my hands away. "Don't make this harder than it already is. Just tell me what I need to know to get through the next two hours."

She did. In a rushed whisper, she told me about Arthur's favorite wine, his business associates who'll be at the wedding, the way Pamela laughed at his jokes even when they're not funny. She told me about the honeymoon plans (a week in the Maldives that I'll apparently have to fake enthusiasm about) and the expectations for public appearances.

She told me everything except the one thing I actually needed to know: how to be Pamela when I've spent my whole life being anything but.

A knock at the door interrupted us. "Five minutes, Ms. Wright."

Mom kissed my cheek. "You can do this. I know you can."

Then she left, leaving me alone with a bouquet of white roses and a life that wasn't mine.

The wedding march started.

I took in a deep breath, gripped the bouquet so hard the thorns bit into my palm through the wrapping, and stepped into the hallway.

And that's when I saw him for the first time.

Arthur Bellingham stood at the end of a very long aisle, and even from where I was, I could feel that everything they said about him was true. He was handsome in a severe way, sharp jawline, steel and intense hazel eyes, dark hair styled perfectly in neat waves. He was wearing a tuxedo and was looking at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.

Not happiness. Not excitement.

Something colder. Something that made my skin prickle with warning.

Was this how he always looked at Pamela? Did they share anything at all together?

I started walking, and with each step, I felt more like I was marching toward my own execution.