My New Husband

Something was wrong.

I watched my new husband sign the marriage certificate. His right hand moved across the paper, forming the signature I'd seen on the contracts.

But at the Rothschild gala six months ago, Marcus Laurent had been left-handed. I remembered because he'd bumped into a waiter while reaching for a drink with his left hand. Made a scene about it.

Now he was signing with his right.

People didn't just switch dominant hands.

I took a sip of champagne and kept watching.

"Marcus" picked up his wine glass. Both hands. Like he was afraid it might break. His fingers curved around the stem delicately. Carefully.

The Marcus I'd met at the gala had grabbed glasses. Held them too tight. Gestured wildly with them until wine sloshed over the rim.

This man treated the glass like it was made of spider silk.

"Mr. Cross." An older woman approached our table. Mrs. Ashworth. Old money. Donated millions to art museums. "Congratulations on your marriage."

"Thank you, Mrs. Ashworth."

She turned to "Marcus." Her smile was warm. "And Marcus, dear. I heard the Laurent collection includes a Monet. Is it true?"

"Marcus" looked up. His whole face changed.

Lit up. That was the only way to describe it. Like someone had turned on a light inside him.

"Yes," he said. "Water Lilies. From 1906. The brushwork is incredible. The way he captures light on water..." He stopped. Blinked. The light went out. "I mean. Yeah. It's fine. Worth a lot. That's what matters."

His voice changed too. Got harder. Flatter.

But for those few seconds, he'd sounded passionate. Knowledgeable. Real.

Mrs. Ashworth's eyebrows rose slightly. "Well. Yes. Quite valuable."

She moved on to talk to other guests.

I leaned closer to "Marcus." Kept my voice low.

"You like art."

"What?" He looked at me. Those gray-green eyes went wide. Panicked.

"The Monet. You sounded like you actually knew what you were talking about."

"I..." He swallowed. "I took a class once. In college. Art history."

"I thought you hated your art history requirement. You told me at the gala it was a waste of time."

His face went pale. "I... did I say that?"

"You did. Complained about it for ten minutes." I watched him carefully. "Called it pretentious garbage for people with too much money and no taste."

"Right. Yeah." He laughed. It sounded forced. "I was drunk. I actually... I mean, it wasn't that bad."

Liar.

But why would Marcus Laurent lie about hating art? What possible reason...

"Mr. Cross." A business associate appeared. Wanted to talk about the merger. I had to turn my attention away.

But I kept watching "Marcus" from the corner of my eye.

The way he sat. Straight-backed. Almost prim. Taking up as little space as possible.

Marcus sprawled. Legs wide. Arm over the back of his chair. He'd taken up half the bar at the Rothschild gala.

This man was trying to disappear into his chair.

When servers brought food, "Marcus" picked at it. Used his fork and knife properly. Cut small bites. Chewed slowly.

Marcus had eaten like he was racing someone. Talked with his mouth full. Didn't care who saw.

I caught myself staring at his hands again.

Long fingers. Clean nails. No ragged edges. Calluses on the tips like he'd held something repeatedly. A pen maybe. Or...

A paintbrush?

No. That was crazy. Why would Marcus Laurent have calluses from painting?

But the thought stuck.

I waited until we were alone for a moment. Most of the guests were mingling. "Marcus" was staring at his champagne like it might bite him.

"Remember that bourbon we had at the Met Gala?" I said casually.

He looked up. "What?"

"The bourbon. At the Met Gala. You said it was the best you'd ever had."

His face went blank. Completely blank.

"Right," he said slowly. "The bourbon. At the Met Gala."

"What was it called again?"

"I... I don't..." He was stammering. Actually stammering. "It's been a while. I don't remember the name."

"You said it was your favorite. You couldn't stop talking about it."

"It was really good." His voice got higher. Then he seemed to realize and forced it lower. "Best bourbon ever. Definitely."

I'd never given him bourbon at the Met Gala.

Marcus drank whiskey. Specifically Johnny Walker Blue. He'd been very loud about his preference.

So either Marcus had suddenly developed amnesia about his favorite drink, or...

Or this wasn't Marcus.

The thought was insane. Impossible.

But it explained everything. The handedness. The mannerisms. The art knowledge he tried to hide. The way he moved like he was afraid of taking up space.

This wasn't Marcus Laurent.

But if this wasn't Marcus, then who the hell was it?

And why?

I looked at James Laurent across the garden. He was talking to other guests. Smiling. Playing the proud father.

He had to know. This was his son. He'd know if someone was impersonating him.

Unless...

Unless James was in on it.

My mind raced through the possibilities. The Laurents were desperate. Fifty million in debt. Marcus refused to marry me. Sent that note saying no.

So they sent someone else.

But who? And why would anyone agree to this?

I looked at "Marcus" again. Really looked at him.

The shape of his face. The curve of his neck. The way his hair fell over his forehead.

He looked like Marcus. Almost exactly like Marcus.

Brother.

The word hit me like a punch.

The Laurents had another son. I'd seen it in Victoria's background check. Younger brother. Felix. No photo in the file. No information beyond his name and age.

Felix Laurent.

Was I sitting next to Felix Laurent?

And if I was, what the hell was I supposed to do about it?

We were married. Legally married. The contracts were signed. The patents were being transferred.

If I called this out now, the whole deal fell apart. My company lost the patents. The merger collapsed.

And I looked like a fool. Again.

I couldn't afford that. Not after Derek. Not after the board already questioned my judgment.

But I couldn't ignore this either.

The reception was ending. Guests were leaving. Alessandro came over.

"Car's ready when you are."

Right. The car. To take us to the penthouse.

To my home. Where I'd be alone with whoever this man really was.

"Marcus" stood up. He was shaking again. Trying to hide it but failing.

James Laurent approached. Put a hand on his shoulder. Squeezed hard enough that "Marcus" flinched.

"Be good," James said. Low enough that maybe he thought I couldn't hear. But I heard. "Remember what's at stake."

"Marcus" nodded. Didn't say anything.

His mother appeared. Claire Laurent. Her eyes were red from crying.

"Marcus" turned toward her. And for just a second, his hand reached out. Instinctive. Automatic.

Like a scared child reaching for their mother's comfort.

His fingers brushed hers. She squeezed his hand once. Quick. Then let go.

"Marcus" pulled his hand back fast. Like he'd been burned.

But I'd seen it. That moment of vulnerability. That need for comfort.

Marcus Laurent hated his mother. He'd told me at the gala. Said she was weak. Said he couldn't wait to get away from her.

This man had reached for her like she was his lifeline.

The car was waiting. Alessandro held the door open.

"Ready?" I asked.

"Marcus" looked at me. Those gray green eyes were full of fear.

"Yes," he whispered.

But we both knew that was a lie.