You Chose Her, Remember?

I spent three years as Daniel Wilson's stand-in for his first love.

Swallowed every insult. Every lie. My dad died because of him.

And still, it took me walking away in a soaked dress for that cold-hearted Wall Street king to realize...

He'd never loved her.

He'd loved me.

***

Dad died while Daniel was at the airport—picking up another girl.

"Dad..." I dropped to my knees by the bed, vision swimming. His hand was still gripping mine, cold but firm, like he had more to say.

Right then, it hit me—I was done.

One month. That's all I gave myself. Bury my dad. Collect every receipt, every dirty secret. Then I'd be gone.

My phone wouldn't shut up—more calls from the hospital. The $300K surgery drained me. I even sold Dad's favorite vintage car.

But Daniel? "The company's tight on cash. Two days."

Two days. Dad didn't have two days.

I called. Hands shaking. It rang forever before he finally picked up. I could hear the airport in the background.

"What is it? I'm busy."

"My dad's gone." My voice cracked. "Can you come back?"

Silence.

"I'm in London. Business trip. Handle it. I'll wire the money."

"But you're at—"

Click. Call ended.

I stared at the screen. His location from thirty minutes ago? JFK International.

He lied. Why?

A nurse walked in. "Please handle the post-death formalities."

Buzz. A text from Daniel's assistant:

[Mrs. Wilson, Mr. Wilson asked me to inform you there are important guests tonight. Please prepare dinner before eight.]

Important guests.

I looked at Dad's lifeless face. The weight of it all finally dropped.

I went through the motions, numb. Back at the house, I opened the door—and froze.

Laughter. A woman's.

"Daniel, this place is gorgeous—it's just like my villa in Switzerland."

"I modeled it after your style."

His voice—soft. Too soft.

In the living room, she was draped all over him. That profile—way too familiar.

She must've felt me staring, because she turned.

And my stomach dropped.

That face looked so close to mine—just with more flirt and less frost.

"You must be Emily," she said, eyes scanning me. "Tsk. The resemblance is wild."

"Sophie, don't," Daniel muttered. His eyes never left hers.

Sophie.

Sophie Montrose.

Finally had the name. The girl from his secret photo album in the safe—every page, her face.

I was just the stand-in.

"I'll make dinner," I said, eyes low.

"No need." Daniel's voice turned ice. "Sophie hates the smell of cooking. I ordered in. Get the room ready—she's staying."

"Which room?"

"Yours," he said, like it was nothing. "You'll move to the guest room."

My hands trembled. The room I'd lived in for three years—handed off like it meant nothing. Because it never really did.

Lavender curtains. French vanity. That stupid lavender diffuser on the nightstand.

I'm allergic to lavender. Daniel never noticed.

Sophie leaned on the doorframe, fingering her diamond necklace. "Heard about your dad. That's rough. But maybe it's for the best. Daniel said those bills were insane. Now we had enough left for this necklace."

I laughed, even as the tears came.

The money that could've saved my dad?

Now hanging off her neck.