The Replacement

Chapter Two:

Jade's POV

“You look beautiful,” Audrey said. Her voice was thick with a pride that I could not mirror.

Audrey was more than my designer; she was my friend. She was perhaps the only person in this city who seemed genuinely excited about tonight. I stared at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror of the dressing suite, but I did not see a bride. I saw a ghost draped in expensive silk.

My makeup was a masterpiece of deception. It was flawless enough to hide the grey exhaustion under my eyes and the simmering anger I refused to let out. I had not cried last night. I could not afford that luxury. Crying would have made the sight of Elio and Sheila real, and I needed it to stay a nightmare until I figured out how to survive it.

The humiliation from my father burned hotter than the heartbreak. This morning, I had woken up to three missed calls from Elio. I did not return them. I refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing my voice tremble.

Audrey moved behind me. Her hands were light as she adjusted the fabric. “Step closer to the mirror, Jade. You should really see it properly. This is your moment.”

I obeyed, moving with the stiff, mechanical grace of a robot. The dress was ivory silk. It was simple but devastatingly expensive. It fit me like it had been spun directly onto my skin. The fabric traced my curves without clinging too tightly, flowing down my legs in a way that made me look taller and sharper than I felt.

One shoulder was bare. The other was wrapped loosely in a halter strap that crossed my chest and fastened around my neck before falling down my back. The back dipped into a deep V. It revealed the curve of my spine before the fabric gathered and spread at my feet. It was not a dramatic gown, but it was elegant. It was perfect. And I hated that I was wearing it for a man who had already discarded me.

“It’s time,” Audrey whispered.

I took one last look at the stranger in the mirror. I slipped into my heels and headed for the rooftop.

The venue was a masterpiece of vanity. The hotel rooftop was already full by the time I arrived. Champagne glasses clinked under the moonlight and laughter floated through the air like poisonous glitter. The city lights below shimmered, mocking me with their distant and cold beauty.

The moment I stepped onto the deck, the stares began. Rich people have a habit of examining everything, especially when they smell blood in the water. They looked at my dress, my hair, and my posture. They were looking for a crack in the porcelain.

Congratulations followed in a sickening wave. There were empty compliments and well-wishes from people who only cared about what my marriage represented for their stock portfolios. I searched the crowd for Elio, but he was nowhere to be found.

So I smiled. I spoke. I endured meaningless conversations about fashion and luxury brands until my cheeks hurt from the effort of pretending I was not hollow.

Then, the sharp sound of a glass tapping against another cut through the noise. The crowd quieted instantly.

Elio stood in the center of the terrace with a champagne glass held aloft. He looked confident and comfortable, as if the world existed solely for his benefit. In his charcoal suit, he was the image of the perfect billionaire. I stood still. My fingers curled so tightly around my purse that the leather bit into my skin.

“Good evening, everyone,” he began. His voice was smooth and it carried effortlessly over the rooftop. “Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedules to honor this invitation.”

Applause rippled through the guests. I took a deep breath as I prepared to step forward. My heart was slamming against my ribs, but I forced my chin up.

“This party is held to announce my engagement,” Elio continued. A charming smile played on his lips. “To my beautiful fiancée.”

More applause followed. I noticed then that he still had not looked for me. He did not glance toward the door where I stood. He did not hesitate. He spoke with the absolute certainty of a man who had already won.

He paused for dramatic effect. He lifted his glass higher. “I would like to call my lovely fiancée forward for a toast.”

I smoothed the silk of my dress and took a single step forward. The words of a gracious speech were already forming on my tongue.

Then Elio’s smile widened into something predatory. “Ladies and gentlemen, my fiancée… Sheila Moretti.”

The world did not just freeze. It shattered.

For a second, I thought the wind had snatched his words and twisted them. But then the murmurs started. They were loud, confused, and jagged. My step-sister walked forward from the shadows behind him. She was wearing a dress that was a near-mirror of mine, except hers was a scandalous and burning red.

Sheila stood beside Elio and kissed him. It was not a polite or public kiss. It was deep. It was familiar. It was a claim. Elio’s hand slid around her waist. His fingers splayed over her hip like he had every right to be there. It looked like he had never been mine at all.

The applause continued, though it was scattered and awkward now. The guests looked from the stage to me. Their eyes were filled with a horrific and gleeful pity.

Sheila lifted her glass. Her eyes locked onto mine across the sea of people. Her smile was sweet, but her eyes were triumphant. “To love,” she said. “And to forever.”

“To forever,” the crowd repeated. The sound was like a funeral knell.

I searched the crowd for my father. I found him standing near the bar with a scotch in his hand. He met my gaze for a fraction of a second. His eyes were cold and devoid of any regret. Then, he looked away. He turned back to a business associate as if I were a stranger who had overstayed her welcome.

This was planned. This was a choreographed execution. They did not just betray me. They had erased me in front of the very world I was raised to impress.

The rooftop began to spin. The scent of expensive perfume and champagne became a suffocating fog. My ears rang with the sound of my own blood rushing through them. I could not breathe. I could not be here.

I turned and ran.

I did not care about grace anymore. The elevator was taking too long. Its golden doors were a barrier I could not wait for. I ducked into the service stairwell and tore off my heels as I went. The concrete was cold under my feet, but I did not stop. I clutched the ivory silk of my dress and rushed down the stairs.

My hands shook as I reached the landing. I fumbled for my phone to call a cab. My vision was a blurred mess of tears I refused to let fall.

“I’m so sorry,” I blurted as I collided with a solid wall of a person.

I did not look up. I could not. I kept moving, even though my legs were weak and trembling. But the dress tangled around my ankles. My balance vanished.

The world tilted violently. I felt the air rush past me as I tumbled down the final flight of stairs.

Pain exploded through my shoulder and hip. It was a sharp and white-hot flash that stole my breath. When I finally stopped at the bottom, I was a heap of ruined silk and bruised skin. A warm trickle of liquid began to slide down the side of my forehead.

Blood was the only warm thing in this building.

My eyes lifted weakly. Through the haze of pain and the dim light of the stairwell, I saw a figure descending toward me. He was tall and broad-shouldered. He moved with a heavy and deliberate grace. He was a shadow against the harsh overhead lights.

I tried to focus on his face. I wanted to know who was witnessing my final and total collapse. But the darkness was faster. It rose up to meet me. It was heavy and silent. It swallowed the world whole before I could see his eyes.