The Replacement Wife

I've always been the spare daughter, but I never thought they'd actually use me as a replacement part.

The wedding dress hangs on my closet door like a ghost. White silk, imported lace, probably worth more than everything I own combined. I didn't put it there. I wouldn't touch Felicity's things even if someone paid me.

"Iris!" Mother's voice cuts through the brownstone like a knife through butter. "Iris, get in here. Now."

Seventeen steps from my bedroom to Felicity's. I count them without meaning to, the way I count everything. Numbers make sense. Numbers don't lie or disappear two hours before their own wedding.

Felicity's room looks like a hurricane hit a department store. Makeup scattered across her vanity, shoes everywhere, her actual wedding dress crumpled on the floor. The window's wide open, curtains billowing in the October wind.

Mother stands in the center of the chaos, still in her dressing gown, a champagne flute dangling from her fingers. Eleanor Hartley doesn't do panic. She does calculation.

"Where is she?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.

"Gone." Mother sets down the glass with a click. "She left a note. Apparently, she's in love with her yoga instructor and they're on a plane to Costa Rica."

I should feel something. Shock, maybe. Anger. But there's just this weird numbness spreading through my chest. "Good for her."

"Good for her?" Mother's laugh is sharp enough to draw blood. "Your father is downstairs having his third scotch and it's not even ten in the morning. The Laurent family will be here in two hours. Do you understand what this means? The merger, the contracts, everything we've worked for...

"Everything you've worked for," I correct. "Felicity and I didn't ask to be bargaining chips."

She moves faster than I expect, crossing the room in three strides. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, spinning me toward Felicity's full-length mirror. We stand there side by side, or rather, my reflection stands next to hers.

"Look," Mother says. "Really look."

I see what she sees. Same height. Same build, though I'm maybe five pounds heavier. Same dark hair, though mine's usually in a ponytail while Felicity spends two hours with a flat iron. Same blue eyes, same nose, same chin. People used to ask if we were twins before Felicity discovered contouring and I discovered the library.

"No," I say. "Whatever you're thinking, no."

"You're the same size. Similar features. We can make this work."

The numbness evaporates, replaced by something hot and acidic. "Make what work? You want me to pretend to be Felicity?"

"I want you to save this family." Her grip tightens. "The contract is very specific, Iris. If we don't deliver a bride today, Hartley Industries defaults. Your father will lose everything. The house, the company, our reputation...

"Let it burn." The words taste like freedom. "Maybe Dad should've thought about that before he gambled our futures on a business deal."

Mother's hand connects with my cheek before I can blink. The slap doesn't hurt as much as the look in her eyes-cold, measuring, already moving past my objection to her next argument.

"Three years," she says. "That's all the contract requires. Three years of marriage, then an amicable divorce with both companies stabilized. Felicity was going to do it. Now you will."

"I'm not Felicity."

"You will be today."

I pull away from her, my cheek still stinging. Through the open door, I can see Father in the hallway. Marcus Hartley, former Wall Street titan, now just a man in an expensive suit who can't meet his daughter's eyes.

"Dad?" My voice cracks on the word. "You're actually going to let her do this?"

He looks at the floor. At the wall. Anywhere but at me.

That's when I understand. He's not going to stop this. He's going to let Mother dress me up like a doll and march me down the aisle to marry a stranger, all to save a company I don't care about and a lifestyle I never wanted.

"I'll do it," I hear myself say. The words come from somewhere far away, somewhere cold and practical. "But not for you. Not for the company."

Mother's eyebrows rise. "Then why?"

"Because Felicity got out." I look at the open window, at the curtains still dancing in the wind. "And if I do this, you'll leave her alone. No investigators, no lawyers, no dragging her back. She gets to be free."

"Fine." Mother's already moving, pulling makeup from Felicity's vanity, barking orders to someone on her phone. "The bridesmaids will be here in ten minutes. We'll tell everyone Felicity had a headache this morning. You've been here the whole time. Got it?"

I nod, but I'm not really listening anymore. I'm thinking about contract law, about the specific wording Mother mentioned. Three years. Not forever. Just three years of my life, and then Felicity never has to come back to this house, never has to see these people who treat love like a stock option.

I can do three years. I survived eighteen years of being the spare. What's three more?

The bridesmaids descend like a flock of pastel birds, all fake smiles and careful questions. They do my hair, my makeup, paint my face until I look like a stranger. Someone sprays Felicity's perfume-something floral and expensive that makes my eyes water. Someone else brings me the dress.

It fits perfectly. Of course it does. We're the same size, after all.

I stand in front of the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back. She looks elegant. Composed. Nothing like the girl who spent last night reading about quantum physics in her pajamas.

"Beautiful," Mother says, but she's looking at her phone, already thinking three steps ahead.

Father appears in the doorway, looking older than he did an hour ago. He's supposed to walk me down the aisle. Give me away, like I'm something he owns.

"Iris," he starts, but I cut him off.

"Did you ever consider saying no?"

He doesn't answer. He doesn't have to.

Downstairs, I hear music. The ceremony is starting. This is really happening.

Mother adjusts my veil one last time. "Remember, you're Felicity today. Smile. Don't talk too much. And for God's sake, don't mention anything about mathematics or science. Dominic Laurent wants a wife, not a lecture."

I bite back the response burning on my tongue. Three years. Just three years.

Father offers his arm. I take it because I have to, because the alternative is watching everything collapse and knowing Felicity would get pulled back into the wreckage.

The doors open. White runner, white roses, white everything. Two hundred guests turn to stare, and I force my face into something resembling a smile.

I step into the aisle, and every eye turns to me. I keep my gaze straight ahead, focused on the altar, on the figure standing there in a black tux that probably costs more than my college education.

Dominic Laurent.