Chapter 6: The Groom I Never Met

POV: IVY

I had signed away three years of my life to a man I had never met, and now I had less than twenty-four hours to become the woman he expected to marry.

The heavy oak door of Mr. Vance’s office had barely closed behind me when my phone chimed with the billing notification from St. Jude’s. The payment had cleared. Grandmother was safe, her ICU bed secured, her experimental treatments guaranteed. But the wave of relief that washed over me was instantly swallowed by a suffocating weight. I had traded my identity, my future, and my freedom for that receipt.

When I stepped into the foyer of the estate, Evelyn was waiting for me at the foot of the grand staircase. She didn't ask how I was holding up or whether my hands were still shaking from signing those fraud-laden documents. She simply held out a polished leather portfolio and tapped her gold wrist watch with a long, manicured finger.

“The wedding is tomorrow at noon,” Evelyn announced, her voice as crisp and emotionless as a corporate decree. “The Sterling family’s media team has already released the joint press statement to the papers. You have less than twenty-four hours to erase every trace of your quiet, pathetic habits and become Gemma.”

She unzipped the portfolio, revealing a dense, single-spaced schedule printed on heavy paper.

“You will spend today memorizing every detail of Gemma’s life,” Evelyn continued, leaning in close enough for her sharp floral perfume to burn my nose. “The hair and makeup artists arrive at six in the morning. The dress fitters will handle final alterations at seven. If you stutter, if you walk like an unpolished schoolgirl, or if you make a single mistake in front of Michael Sterling’s family, you will ruin everything.”

I took the thick folder without uttering a word. I turned away from my mother and walked up the stairs to my room at the end of the hall, a room that had always felt more like a hidden storage space than a daughter’s bedroom.

For the rest of the day, my small room became a training ground for deception.

I sat at my vanity table, spreading Gemma’s black binder beside open folders of high-resolution photographs. I spent hours studying her face, her gestures, and her body language. I learned that Gemma tilted her chin upward whenever she was challenged, that she crossed her legs at the ankles when sitting in luxury furniture, and that she favored an airy, condescending chuckle to brush off people she deemed beneath her.

I stood before the mirror, trying on her expressions like cheap masks.

I forced my rounded shoulders back, aligned my spine, and practiced her fluid, arrogant stride across the hardwood floor. But every time I caught my own eyes in the glass, all I saw was a frightened hostage putting on the uniform of her captor.

At five in the afternoon, my phone vibrated on the bedspread. The screen lit up with Gemma’s name.

I picked it up and tapped the speaker button. “Gemma?”

The background noise through the speaker was a loud, chaotic mix of PA announcements in French and rolling luggage wheels.

“Hey, Ivy!” Gemma’s voice bubbled with champagne-soaked excitement, completely free of any guilt or hesitation. “I just landed at Charles de Gaulle! The modeling agency sent a private chauffeur to pick me up, and my apartment in the 8th arrondissement is absolutely divine!”

A sharp, painful knot twisted in my stomach. “I’m glad Paris is working out for you,” I said, keeping my voice as flat as possible. “Meanwhile, I’m sitting here trying to figure out how to pull off this nightmare tomorrow.”

Gemma let out a dramatic, dismissive huff. “Oh, stop being so dramatic, Ivy. Have you memorized the file I gave you?”

“I’ve been reading it all day,” I replied, leaning my back against the wall. “Do you have any actual advice about Michael? Something that isn't typed in a PR factsheet? How am I supposed to handle him when we're alone?”

Gemma let out a short, cold laugh that echoed loudly through the airport terminal.

“Honestly, Ivy, I barely spoke twenty words to the man outside of formal dinners,” she sneered. “If you want advice, it’s simple: Michael Sterling only values appearances and absolutely hates public embarrassment. He’s a cold, disciplined machine who treats everything like a business acquisition. As long as you keep your mouth shut, look like a proper heiress when the cameras flash, and stay out of his personal life, he won't give you a second look.”

Before I could ask another question, she cut in briskly. “My driver is holding up my name sign. Good luck tomorrow, sister! Try not to look so boring!”

The call ended with a sharp click.

I pulled the phone away, staring at the dark glass screen. He values appearances and hates public embarrassment. That was the entirety of the wisdom my twin sister had left me with after handing me over to a stranger.

Night fell over the house like a heavy wool blanket.

By nine o'clock, the household staff had delivered Gemma’s wedding gown to my room, hanging it carefully from the tall wardrobe frame. It was an exquisite gown of white silk and handmade lace, cut off the shoulders with a sweeping train that looked like spun silver. It was gorgeous, breathtaking, and terrifying.

Beside the dress on the vanity lay a velvet box containing a wide, multi-strand diamond choker necklace.

I walked over to the table and picked up the heavy piece of jewelry. I lifted my hair, unbuttoning the high collar of my soft sweater, and stared at my reflection in the mirror. Just beneath my left collarbone sat a faint, crescent-shaped birthmark. It was small, light brown, and entirely unique to me—the one physical detail that proved I was Ivy and not Gemma.

I placed the wide diamond choker around my neck. The heavy metal press of the diamonds covered the mark completely, hiding it beneath a wall of ice and glitter. I fastened the clasp tightly, feeling the cold weight against my throat. Even my own skin was now a secret I had to bury.

Just before midnight, a sharp, two-tap knock echoed against my bedroom door.

Evelyn walked in without waiting for an invitation. She was dressed in a dark silk robe, carrying a sleek, silver-framed photograph in her hand. Her dark eyes swept over the room, taking in the white gown, the diamond necklace on my neck, and the practice papers scattered across my desk.

She stepped directly up to my vanity, placing the silver frame flat on the wood right under the lamp light.

“Study his face carefully,” Evelyn said, her voice dropping into a low, chilling whisper that made the hairs on my arms stand up.

I lowered my eyes to the photograph.

Staring back at me was Michael Sterling.

He was undeniably handsome, with sharp, sculpted features, a strong jawline, and dark hair styled with absolute perfection. But it was his eyes that held me frozen. They were a piercing, stormy gray, intense, calculating, and completely unreadable. There was no warmth in his expression, no softness in his mouth, and no trace of vulnerability. He looked like a man who could destroy an opponent without ever raising his voice.

Evelyn leaned down until her cold breath brushed against my ear, her hand resting on my shoulder like a heavy iron clamp.

“Tomorrow he becomes your husband, and he must never know he married the wrong twin.”