His Substitute Love, A Fatal Truth

For five years, I was the cherished ward of Ambrose Aguilar, the man who saved me. I thought he loved me, until his pregnant first love, Katharine, returned. I was just her substitute.

That same day, I was diagnosed with a fatal blood disease, my only hope a transplant from family I never had.

Ambrose' s kindness turned to cruelty. He watched as Katharine tormented me, framed me, and finally ordered me killed.

But the cruelest twist came from a DNA test: Katharine, the architect of my suffering, was my biological mother.

She sacrificed her life to give me the transplant. Now I'm starting over, leaving the man who broke me to the ruins of his own making.

Chapter 1

Cara Barlow POV:

The day Ambrose Aguilar took me to the hospital for Katharine Macdonald' s pregnancy check-up was the day I learned five years of my life had been a meticulously crafted lie.

The sterile smell of antiseptic clung to the air in the private hospital wing, a scent I usually associated with healing. Today, it felt like the precursor to an autopsy-the death of my hope. I sat on a plush leather chair in the waiting area, my hands clenched so tightly in my lap that my knuckles were white.

Across from me, Katharine Macdonald, radiant and glowing, leaned against Ambrose's shoulder. His hand rested possessively on the slight curve of her stomach, his thumb tracing slow, gentle circles. A gesture of affection so profound, so intimate, it felt like a physical blow. That hand used to hold mine.

"The results are excellent, Mr. Aguilar," the doctor said, his smile beaming. "Ms. Macdonald and the baby are in perfect health. The first trimester is always the most delicate, but everything looks wonderful."

Ambrose' s cold, sculpted features softened into a rare, breathtaking smile. It was a smile I had spent five years trying to earn, and had only ever received in fleeting, precious moments. He directed it fully at Katharine, his eyes filled with a tenderness that made my own heart ache with a hollow, echoing beat.

"Thank you, doctor," Ambrose said, his voice, usually a low baritone that commanded boardrooms, now laced with an unfamiliar warmth.

Katharine laughed, a light, tinkling sound that grated on my nerves. "Did you hear that, Ambrose? Our baby is strong."

Our baby.

The words slammed into me, knocking the air from my lungs. My own nails bit into the soft flesh of my palm, creating four perfect, bloody crescents. The sting was a welcome distraction from the gaping chasm that had just opened in my chest.

Five years. I had lived in his house for five years, as his ward, the orphan girl he' d plucked from poverty. I had loved him for four years, eleven months, and twenty-seven days. And for all that time, he had been waiting for her.

Katharine Macdonald. His first love, the society princess who had broken his heart by marrying a wealthier man. Now she was back-divorced, pregnant, and with a teenage son in tow. She returned to New York three months ago, and in those three months, my world had systematically disintegrated.

She had the same auburn hair as me, the same green eyes, the same delicate curve of her jaw. I used to think it was a coincidence. Now I knew the horrifying truth. I was her understudy, a living, breathing placeholder for the woman he could never forget.

"Cara," Ambrose' s voice cut through my haze, sharp and impatient. It was back to its usual cold timbre. The warmth was reserved exclusively for Katharine. "Go get Katharine a glass of warm water. The doctor said she needs to stay hydrated."

He didn't look at me when he said it. His gaze was fixed on Katharine as he helped her stand, his movements full of a reverence I had only ever dreamed of.

I stood on numb legs, my own body feeling distant and disconnected. "Yes, Mr. Aguilar."

The name felt foreign on my tongue. I used to call him Ambrose. He used to insist on it. Now, "Mr. Aguilar" was a wall, a constant reminder of my new place.

As I walked toward the water dispenser at the end of the hall, the bitterness was a physical taste in my mouth, metallic and sour like old blood. He had found me when I was seventeen, a malnourished orphan who had fainted from hunger on the street. He had taken me in, fed me, clothed me, educated me. He had given me a life I could never have imagined, filled with kindness so overwhelming it had been impossible not to fall in love.

He had spoiled me, indulged my every whim. He' d named a star after my adoptive mother who had passed away. He' d built me a greenhouse because I liked flowers. He' d held me when I had nightmares.

He had made me believe I was special.

But it was all a lie. I was a substitute. A stand-in. A ghost.

A sudden, dizzying wave crashed over me. The polished hospital floor tilted beneath my feet, and the bright fluorescent lights overhead splintered into a thousand tiny, painful shards. I braced myself against the wall, my breath catching in my throat.

A warm trickle ran from my nose. I brought a trembling hand to my face and it came away stained crimson.

It had been happening more often lately. The dizzy spells, the fatigue that felt bone-deep, the spontaneous bruises that bloomed on my skin like pale, purple flowers. I had attributed it to the stress and heartbreak of Katharine' s return.

The nosebleed wouldn' t stop. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through my despair. I stumbled into the nearest restroom, grabbing fistfuls of paper towels, but the blood just kept coming, a torrent of red against the stark white porcelain of the sink.

My vision swam. My knees buckled.

I woke up in a different hospital room, the harsh smell of disinfectant even stronger here. A kind-faced, older doctor was looking at my chart, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Miss Barlow," he said softly. "I' m Dr. Evans. You lost consciousness. We' ve run some tests."

I tried to sit up, my head pounding. "I' m... I' m fine. Just tired."

He gave me a sad, pitying look that made my stomach clench. "Your blood work is very concerning. We need to admit you for a bone marrow biopsy, but based on these initial results... I' m afraid it' s severe aplastic anemia. Late stage."

The words didn't register at first. They were just medical jargon, meaningless sounds.

"What does that mean?" I whispered, my throat suddenly dry.

"It means your bone marrow isn' t producing enough new blood cells," he explained gently. "It' s a very serious condition. At this stage, your only real hope for a cure is a bone marrow transplant."

A transplant. The word held a sliver of hope.

"Okay," I said, clinging to it. "Okay. What do we do?"

Dr. Evans' s expression grew even more somber. "The best chance for a match is with a biological relative. A sibling, a parent... Do you have any family we can contact, Miss Barlow?"

The sliver of hope shattered, turning to dust.

Family.

I was an orphan. Found on the steps of a church as a baby, raised in a crowded, underfunded home until I aged out. My adoptive mother, the only real family I' d ever known, had died of cancer two years before Ambrose found me. I had no one.

The doctor saw the answer in my eyes. The pity in his gaze was almost unbearable.

I was twenty-two years old. I had been discarded by the man I loved, I was a substitute for a woman who despised me, and now, I was dying.

Alone.

I leaned back against the stiff pillows, a single, hot tear tracing a path through the grime on my cheek. I thought of Ambrose, of the warmth in his eyes when he looked at Katharine. He was starting a family, creating a life, a future.

While mine was ending.

A bitter, hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat. I had nothing. No love, no family, no future.

I walked out of the hospital in a daze, the diagnosis a death sentence tucked into my purse. Ambrose and Katharine were gone. Of course they were. They wouldn't wait for the discarded toy.

I found them back at the Aguilar mansion, standing on the grand staircase. He was holding her, his hand on her back, his expression worried. She was leaning into him, her face pale.

"I need to tell you something," I started, my voice weak. I had to tell him. Maybe, just maybe, some part of the man who had saved me still existed.

Ambrose didn't even look at me. His focus was entirely on Katharine. "What took you so long? Katharine nearly fainted. Can' t you do one simple thing right?"

His words were casual, dismissive, but they cut deeper than any knife. My pain, my fear, my impending death-it was all an inconvenience. An interruption to his perfect life with his perfect woman.

Katharine turned her head slightly, a smug, triumphant smile playing on her lips. "Oh, Ambrose, don't be so harsh. She' s not used to this kind of pressure. It' s not her fault she' s... slow."

She took a step down, as if to come towards me, her hand extended in a mockery of concern. Then, her foot "slipped."

She stumbled forward, her body colliding with mine. I was already weak, already off-balance, and the impact sent me tumbling backward down the marble stairs.

Pain exploded in my back and head as I hit the hard steps. But it was nothing compared to the agony in my heart as I looked up.

Ambrose didn't even glance at me. He lunged forward, catching Katharine in his arms, his face a mask of terror. "Katharine! Are you alright? The baby!"

He cradled her as if she were made of spun glass, his voice laced with frantic concern. He never once looked at me, lying crumpled and broken at the bottom of the stairs.

"It' s my fault," Katharine sobbed into his chest, her voice muffled but perfectly audible. "I shouldn' t have tried to help her. I think... I think she pushed me."

Ambrose' s head snapped up, and his eyes, cold and furious, finally found mine. The look in them was pure hatred.

"You," he snarled, his voice a low growl. "You vicious little snake."

He scooped Katharine into his arms and rushed past me toward the door, shouting for his driver.

I lay there, on the cold marble, surrounded by the opulent emptiness of the house that was never my home. My head was bleeding. My back was screaming in protest. But the only thing I could feel was the profound, soul-crushing certainty that I had been utterly and completely abandoned.

Tears streamed down my face, hot and silent. I told myself it was just the dust in the air, a silly irritation in my eyes.

It was time to leave New York.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was my best friend, Joline.

"Cara? What' s wrong? You sound awful."

"I' m leaving, Joline," I whispered, my voice cracking.

There was a pause. "Good. Get away from that bastard. But Cara... there' s something I never told you. It' s weird, but... have you ever noticed how much you look like Katharine Macdonald? It' s uncanny. Like looking at a younger version of her."