All Chapters of THE REPLACEMENT BRIDE: Chapter 1 - Chapter 9

My name is Freya Vance. I'm twenty-three years old, and I've spent my whole life being the spare. The spare daughter. The spare kidney. The spare blood. The spare everything.My sister Jade turns twenty-five tomorrow. And according to a contract signed before either of us was born, tomorrow is the day she marries Marcus Hunt.The Hunt and Vance alliance was never about love. It was about survival. Vance Holdings was drowning—bad investments, crumbling businesses, a reputation hanging by a thread. Hunt Industries had money. We had a name. The marriage was a lifeline.When Jade turned twenty-five, she'd become Mrs. Marcus Hunt. Our family would be saved. The debt would be forgiven. The Vance name would survive.Jade turns twenty-five tomorrow.And I've loved Marcus Hunt for eight years.He doesn't know. He never will. Because he belongs to Jade—he has always belonged to Jade—and I'm just the sister who gave a kidney so she could live long enough to walk down the aisle.I learned my plac

Marcus wakes up screaming.Not words, just sound—raw and animal—tearing through the quiet of the hospital room. His body convulses against the bed, hands clawing at the sheets."Mr. Hunt, you need to stay still—""My leg." His voice is hoarse, panicked. "Why can't I feel my leg?"I'm standing in the doorway. I shouldn't be here. Visitors aren't allowed this early, but Gerald Hunt pulled strings, and my parents insisted I come.I don't know why I'm here. Marcus doesn't want me. He made that clear last night.But I'm here anyway, invisible as always, watching him break.The doctor comes in an hour later. Older than the one from last night, with kind eyes and a grave expression."Mr. Hunt, I'm Dr. Patel. I performed your surgery."Marcus is calmer now, sedated, but his eyes are still wild. "Why can't I move my leg?""The accident caused severe damage to your femur, the surrounding muscles, and the nerves. We've reconstructed what we could, but the healing process will be long and difficu

The Hunt residence is a mansion in Bel Air, all glass, marble, and cold, perfect silence.I arrive the morning after the wedding with two suitcases and a heart full of hope I have no right to feel. Marcus is already there, wheeled into the study by his nurse, his face set in that familiar mask of stone."Sit down," he says.I sit.He doesn't look at me. He stares at the fireplace, his hands folded in his lap, and when he speaks, his voice is flat and clinical."This marriage is an obligation. Nothing more."I don't answer. I've learned not to interrupt him."You will have your own rooms. You will not interfere with my personal life. You will not ask questions about Jade. You will not expect anything from me that I have not offered."He pauses."And I have offered nothing."The words land like blows. I keep my face still, my hands folded in my lap, my heart bleeding quietly inside my chest."I still love Jade," he continues. "I have no intention of pretending otherwise. If that's too d

Six weeks after the accident, Marcus stands.His hands are white-knuckled on the parallel bars. His whole body is shaking, sweat running into his eyes. It's ugly and terrible, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.I can't help it. I smile. A real one, the first in weeks."That was incredible," I say.His head snaps toward me, and his face closes like a door."Don't."I blink. "Don't what?""Don't look at me like that." He wipes his face with the back of his hand. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for myself."My jaw tightens. I don't say anything."Then stop congratulating me like I'm a child.""I wasn't—""You were."I close my mouth. I step back into my corner.The therapist glances between us, uncomfortable. Marcus wheels himself out without a word, and the door swings shut behind him."He's pushing himself hard," the therapist says. "It's normal to be angry at this stage."I nod. I don't say anything.Three days later, I bring him lunch.I'm balancing the tray

Marcus loses his balance on the fourth step.It's nothing, really—his good leg plants wide and he catches himself on the bar—but the therapist sees it, and Marcus sees that the therapist saw it. The whole session shifts after that.He tries again. Fails again. On the seventh attempt, he makes it to the end of the bars, but his face is dark and set. When the therapist says, "That's good progress, Mr. Hunt," he snaps, "It's not progress. It's barely walking."The therapist doesn't argue. He just glances at me.I'm against the wall beside the bars, where he told me to stay."At least you're walking faster than a turtle," I say.The room goes very quiet.Marcus turns his head toward me. His face is already forming the words—something sharp, something cruel.Then his mouth twitches.Then he laughs.It's short and surprised and a little rusty, like a door opening after years of being stuck. But it's real."A turtle," he says."A turtle with a limp."The therapist is staring at us.Marcus is