THE CEO'S EX-WIFE HAS HIS TWINS

I sat in the back of the black sedan, adjusting the strap of my designer heel. I was twenty-two, with honey-brown skin, smooth curves, and long dark hair styled in loose waves. My job wasn't that complicated. Rich men paid top dollar for me to be wrapped around their arms at galas, pretend to laugh at their jokes, and look like a prize.

 I was an escort, not a prostitute. I sold my face, my body, and my manners, and up until today, business had been fine.

Then I looked down at the thick envelope of hundred-dollar bills sitting on my lap.

"Look at that stack," Marcus said, watching me through the rearview mirror. "That’s more than you made all of last month combined."

"It’s too much," I said, smoothing down my red silk dress. "And why out of the country? I do dinners, corporate events, and country club parties. I can’t just leave the continent for a fake date. It sounds fishy"

“It sounds like you’ll do exactly as you are told.” Marcus pulled up to the terminal at the airport and parked the car. He turned around in his seat and looked at me. "You don't get to negotiate this one, Carissa. The deposit is already cleared."

"I never agreed to it."

"I agreed to it," he said. His voice was flat. "I've paid your rent, bought your clothes, and kept you fed since you were sixteen. You owe me every dollar in that bag and then some. Get out of the car."

I held my breath, gripping my bag tightly. He bought the bag. He bought the dress. Every polished inch of my look belonged to his agency.

"Marcus, please," I my voice went small. "Just tell them I’m sick."

He got out of the car, opened my door, and grabbed my arm. His grip wasn't violent, but it was tight enough to leave a mark. Enough to send a message. He pulled me out onto the pavement.

"The flight is paid for," he muttered, pulling my suitcase from the trunk. "You go to Brazil, you act like his sweet little fiancée for a week, you stand where he tells you to stand, and you come home. It's the same gig as always, just with a longer flight."

"A week?" I asked. "You told me it was a weekend."

"It's a week now," he said, handing my bag to a flight attendant standing by the jet stairs. He shoved me toward the steps. "Get on the plane, Carissa."

I looked at the flight attendant, then back at Marcus. His eyes were cold. I knew the math. If I walked away right now, I had no money, no home, and nowhere to go. I took a deep breath, lifted my chin, and walked up the stairs into the cabin.

"Welcome aboard, Miss Carissa," the flight attendant said as she closed the heavy door behind me. "We will be taking off in five minutes."

I sat in a wide leather seat, staring out the oval window as the ground dropped away. A stewardess brought me water, but I couldn't drink it. My stomach was tied in tight knots. Fake girlfriend gigs were easy. I knew how to hold a man's arm, how to smile at his boss, and how to look gorgeous in photos. But taking me to another country felt wrong.

"Would you like something to eat?" the attendant asked an hour later.

"No," I said. "Where exactly are we landing?"

"An airfield near the southern border," she said. "That is all I was told."

Ten hours later, the plane touched down on a narrow dirt runway surrounded by dense green trees. The heat hit me the second the cabin door opened. It was hot, thick, and heavy.

A man in a dark suit was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He held a black umbrella over his head to block the sun.

"Carissa?" he asked in thick, accented English.

"Yes," I said, holding onto the handrail as I walked down.

"Follow me."

He didn't take my luggage. Another man grabbed it and tossed it into the back of a beat-up pickup truck. I was pushed into the backseat of a heavily tinted SUV.

"My phone isn't getting any signal," I said, tapping the screen.

The driver reached back and held out his hand. "Give it to me."

"Why?"

"No phones," he said. "Hand it over."

I hesitated, but he stared at me in the mirror until I dropped the phone into his palm. He jammed it into his pocket and started the engine.

We drove for two hours. The asphalt turned to red dirt, and the city buildings turned into thick jungle, punctuated by small, rustic houses every few miles.

"Where are we going?" I asked the driver.

He didn't answer. He just kept his eyes on the dirt road.

"Hey," I raised my voice. "Where are we?"

"São Martinho," he said without looking back. "Almost there."

The SUV finally pulled through a tall wooden gate and stopped in front of a sprawling white compound. The place looked old, surrounded by high concrete walls with glass shards embedded along the top.

The driver opened my door. "Out."

I stepped out into the humid air. Sweat was already sticking my dress to my back. My heels sank into the soft dirt.

A heavy iron door at the front of the house swung open. An older woman with grey hair tied in a tight bun stepped out. She looked at me from head to toe, her eyes stopping on my makeup and body.

"Inside," she said in broken English, gesturing with her hand.

"I want my phone back," I said.

"Inside," she repeated, louder this time.

I walked into the foyer. The floor was cool stone, and the air smelled like old wood and stale flowers.

"I need to speak to whoever hired me," I said, turning to face her. "Where is he?"

She ignored me, pointing toward a set of double wooden doors down the hall. "Go."

I walked down the hallway, my heels clicking loudly against the tile. I pushed the double doors open and stepped into a large bedroom.

Sitting on the edge of a massive four-poster bed was a man. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and striking, with sharp cheekbones, a dark shadow of stubble along his strong jawline, and thick black hair pushed back from his forehead. His skin was a smooth golden bronze, and his deep brown eyes were rimmed with red, looking tired and intense. He wore a tailored dark suit, but his white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and his tie hung loose around his neck.

He stood up the moment I walked in. He moved with a heavy, dangerous kind of grace, looking me up and down.

"You're Carissa?" he asked. His voice was deep, smooth, and gravelly.

"Yes," I said, crossing my arms. "Are you the client?"

"I'm Mateo," he said. He took a step toward me, his dark eyes scanning my face and hair. "Marcus said you were taller."

"I'm five-seven," I said. "Look, Mateo, your driver took my phone, and no one is telling me anything. What is this place? What event are we going to?"

"This is my family's estate," he said, turning toward a large wooden wardrobe against the wall.

"Great. What am I doing here? Am I standing next to you at a dinner party or what?"

Mateo reached inside the wardrobe and pulled out a long, heavy garment wrapped in clear plastic. He carried the plastic bag over and laid it flat on the bed. Then, he unzipped it.

White lace spilled out over the dark bedspread. I stepped closer, my throat suddenly dry.

It was a full-length, intricate white wedding dress, complete with a long lace veil and a box containing a silver tiara.

"What is that?" I whispered.

"Change into it," Mateo said, turning his dark eyes straight onto mine. "The priest is already waiting in the courtyard.”