His Stand-in Bride

"Our name is a crown, Annie. But a crown can strangle just as easily as it can shine."

My mother's voice echoed in my head, as clear as if she were sitting beside me. Instead, I sat at a long glass table surrounded by men old enough to be my father, their suits dark as vultures' wings, their voices sharp with impatience. The Mendes name lay bleeding in the center of the table, and I could feel the crown tightening around my throat.

The boardroom lights hummed overhead, too bright, too unforgiving. The faint smell of burnt coffee and old paper clung to the air. My father sat stiffly at the head of the table, his once-powerful frame hunched, his tie askew, his eyes shadowed by sleepless nights. He tapped a trembling hand against his water glass, trying to maintain authority he no longer had.

One of the investors leaned forward, slamming a file down. "We can't keep stalling, Tate. The lawsuits are piling up. Creditors are circling. You promised us a turnaround."

My father's jaw tightened. "We're negotiating new terms. Mendes Corp isn't going under. I won't allow it."

A hollow laugh broke from another man. "Won't allow it? The numbers don't lie. Bankruptcy is staring you in the face. Unless you can pull a miracle out of your hat, you'll be lucky to avoid prison."

Prison. The word sliced through me like ice. My fingers clenched in my lap, nails biting into my palms. No one looked at me. Not once. I might as well have been a shadow at my father's side.

I studied him quietly. His once-black hair was streaked with gray, his eyes bloodshot, his hands restless. For years I'd watched him play king, commanding boardrooms with his booming voice, but now he looked like a man dragged down by chains.

The men argued over numbers, contracts, who would jump ship first. Their words blurred, replaced by the pounding in my head. I thought of my mother again, her jeweled hand stroking my hair when I was little, whispering that our name meant power. She never told me power could rot.

A voice jolted me back. "The press is already sniffing around," an investor snapped. "Once the headlines hit, it's over. The only thing keeping us quiet is the possibility of a buy-in from Reynolds. Has he even returned your calls?"

My father shifted in his chair. "He'll come through. Nate Reynolds doesn't walk away from an opportunity."

Reynolds. The name made my stomach twist. I'd heard of him, of course. Who in New York hadn't? Billionaire. Ruthless. A man who turned failing companies into gold or ground them into dust, depending on what suited him.

The meeting dragged on for another hour. I didn't speak. No one asked for my opinion, though I wanted to scream. By the end, my father's shoulders sagged as if the weight of the room had crushed him.

When we left, his face was ashen. In the hallway, I touched his arm. "Papa-"

"Not now, Annie." He shook me off and walked ahead, his shoes echoing against marble floors.

I followed in silence, guilt pressing into me like a blade. Because while my father drowned in debts and men shouted in his face, I'd escaped. I'd given myself one night weeks ago-one single night where I wasn't Annie Mendes, dutiful daughter, quiet shadow.

I could still feel it sometimes if I let myself. The stranger's hands on my skin, his breath hot against my throat, the way his eyes burned as if I were the only woman in the world. The hotel sheets tangled around us, the taste of whiskey on his mouth, the ache in my thighs when it was over.

It had been madness. Beautiful, reckless madness. And I hated myself for craving the memory now, when everything was falling apart.

By the time evening came, the house felt heavy, suffocating. The Mendes mansion smelled of polished wood and fading roses, the kind Amelia loved to scatter in every room. I passed through the quiet halls, hearing muffled voices from my father's office. His tone was clipped, deferential-so unlike him.

I slowed outside the door. His voice carried through the crack.

"Yes, Mr. Reynolds. I understand." A pause. "Of course. Whatever terms you set."

My chest tightened.

Then my father's voice dropped lower, almost pleading. "She'll be yours, as promised. Amelia won't object. The marriage will secure everything."

My hand flew to my mouth. My sister? Amelia? My father was offering her like... like payment.

The silence on the other end stretched. Then his voice, sharp with determination: "We'll be ready by next week. Yes. Thank you, Nate."

The call clicked off. I stumbled backward, my pulse thundering in my ears. Marriage. A deal sealed with Amelia's hand. My father had promised her to Nate Reynolds like she was nothing more than a bargaining chip.

I rushed upstairs, nearly tripping over my gown. Amelia's room was glowing with lamplight, the faint scent of expensive perfume curling in the air. She stood by the mirror, brushing out her long waves, humming to herself.

"Amelia," I blurted.

She turned, her silk robe slipping slightly at the shoulder, revealing smooth skin. Her eyes glittered with annoyance. "What now? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I heard Papa. On the phone. He promised you to Nate Reynolds. Amelia, he's serious."

She blinked, then laughed. Laughed. The sound was sharp and reckless, bouncing off the walls.

"Of course he did. That's his style, isn't it? Sell off his daughter to the highest bidder." She tossed the brush onto the vanity and reached for a cigarette from the silver case. Lighting it, she drew in a slow drag, the smoke curling around her like a halo of defiance.

"You're not upset?" I whispered.

She blew smoke toward the ceiling. "Upset? Please. If he thinks I'll play obedient little bride for Nate Reynolds, he's insane." Her lips curved into a wicked smile. "I'd rather burn than marry a man like that."

The laughter in her voice chilled me, even as the smoke stung my eyes.

And at that moment, I wasn't sure if she meant it as a joke-or a promise.

The house woke before I did. Voices rattled the corridors, footsteps thudded up and down the stairs. The sharp, sweet scent of lilies floated under my door, heavy enough to choke me. Someone burst out laughing in the hallway-one of the maids, nervous, too high-pitched. Beyond the windows, I could hear the muffled shouts of journalists camped outside the gates. They called Amelia's name like a chant, waiting for their prize.

I pulled myself out of bed and crossed to the window. The front drive was a storm-black cars lined in neat rows, cameras flashing like lightning whenever the gates cracked open. Men with cameras leaned over the iron railings, their breath clouding in the morning air, their voices tangling in the cold wind: Bride of the year, Amelia Mendes! Over here!

But Amelia wasn't trembling, or pacing, or hiding.

I found her in the sunroom, lounging across the chaise like a goddess bored of worship. A silk robe slipped down her shoulder, one bare leg stretched against the cushions. In her hand, a champagne glass caught the light. She tilted it lazily, bubbles clinging to the rim before she set it against her lips.

For a moment, I just stared. She looked untouched, as if the chaos outside existed for someone else.

"You do realize the wedding is tomorrow?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.

She smiled without looking at me. "Do you realize I don't care?"

I moved into the sunlight, folding my arms. "This isn't a game, Amelia. The investors are breathing down Papa's neck. The company's hanging by a thread. You think you can drink your way through it?"

Amelia laughed, a careless, reckless sound that made my stomach twist. "Oh, Annie. Always so dutiful. Do you know what this looks like to me? Papa's last desperate trick. Parade his daughter in white, hand her over to a man who could buy us out ten times over, and pray for mercy."

Her fingers tapped the rim of her glass, nails painted scarlet. "Tell me, does that sound like survival... or slavery?"

"Don't do this." I took a step closer, lowering my voice. "We don't have a choice. If you walk away, Papa loses everything. Do you want to see him ruined? Do you want to see us lose the house?"

She finally looked at me then. Her blue eyes were sharp, glinting with something that looked like anger, or maybe freedom. "Maybe I do. Maybe I'm tired of being bought and sold like cattle. Papa's debts are not mine to carry."

I flinched. "They're ours, Amelia. Whether we like it or not."

Her smile faltered, but only for a second. She leaned forward, her robe sliding dangerously low. "Why don't you do it then? Why don't you marry Nate Reynolds?"

My breath caught. Heat burned up my neck. "That's not funny."

"Oh, but it is." She tilted her head, studying me. "You're perfect for him. The obedient daughter. Always willing to sacrifice. You'd make such a lovely little wife."

"Stop it." My hands curled into fists.

Her grin widened. "Tell me you wouldn't, Annie. Tell me you wouldn't give yourself up for Papa's empire."

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. Her words pressed into me, sharp as glass. She laughed again, loud, reckless, cruel.

"God," she said, shaking her head. "You really would. You'd walk down that aisle tomorrow if he asked you to."

I turned away, throat burning. I couldn't let her see what her words dredged up-the memory of that night. A stranger's mouth on mine, his hands pressing into my hips, the way he made me forget everything for a few stolen hours. The guilt still clung to me like smoke, and now Amelia's taunt had hit the wound dead center.

That night, the house finally quieted. The guests had gone, the florists had left, the caterers packed away. Only the faint tick of the grandfather clock filled the halls as I passed by Amelia's room.

The door was half open. I slowed.

Inside, the light was soft, golden against the walls. Amelia stood by the window, her robe slipping, phone pressed to her ear. Her voice was low, secretive.

"Yes... tonight," she whispered. "I can't breathe here another second. I promise. I'll come."

My eyes flicked to the bed. The screen of her phone glowed, the name flashing like a knife straight into my chest.

Felix.

My heart slammed.

I couldn't breathe. The air felt too thin, too heavy all at once. His name still tasted bitter on my tongue after all these years. Felix Perez. The man who once held my hand at parties, who whispered dreams into my ear, who kissed me like he meant forever. The man who'd only wanted what my family owned.

I could see it again-his smile, too polished to be real. The way he'd touched the small of my back as though guiding me into a future he'd already mapped out. The night I'd overheard him, laughing with friends about the Mendes fortune, about me being a stepping stone. My blood had gone cold. That night had broken something inside me.

And now Amelia was whispering to him, promising escape.

I stepped back, gripping the doorframe so hard my knuckles whitened. I wanted to storm in, to scream at her, to tear the phone out of her hands. But my feet wouldn't move.

Later, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, my skin prickling with dread. The house had gone quiet. Too quiet. Then-softly-the click of a door.

I slipped out of bed, heart pounding. The hallway was dark, only a thin strip of moonlight cutting across the floor. Amelia's room was empty. The dress was crumpled on the chair, pins still scattered around it. On the desk, a note lay half-written, ink smudged.

Annie, don't try to stop me...

My throat closed. Her perfume still lingered, faint and fading, as if she'd carried it out into the night.

Behind me, footsteps thundered. My father appeared in the hallway, his shirt half undone, face ashen. His eyes locked on mine, wild with panic.

"Annie," he rasped, his voice hoarse, broken. "Your sister is gone."

The house was no longer a house. It was a cage with its bars rattling, and I was trapped inside.

By morning, word of Amelia's disappearance had already slipped beyond our gates. Reporters clogged the street like vultures, black umbrellas blooming against the drizzle, cameras flashing whenever a servant dared open the door. They shouted questions, their voices overlapping in a sick frenzy: Is it true the bride is gone? Did she run away? Who is she with?

Through the heavy curtains, I could see them pressing against the railings, eyes sharp, mouths open like beaks tearing at carrion. And I... I was the prey, cornered, waiting for the strike.

Inside, the Mendes mansion shook with fury. My father's voice thundered through the halls. Staff scurried in hushed panic, carrying trays they forgot to set down, dresses slipping from their arms, their footsteps quick and nervous against the marble floor. Every corner buzzed with whispers: Where is she? Who took her?

I found him in the study, hunched over the desk, phone clutched in his fist, his other hand clutching the edge as if the wood itself kept him from collapsing. His face was gray, sweat shining along his temples.

"Papa-"

He cut me off with a snarl, slamming the phone down so hard I flinched. "Do you understand what she's done?" His eyes blazed, bloodshot. "Do you understand what's at stake?"

I swallowed, throat dry. "We can delay-just for a few days, until we-"

"Delay?" His fist crashed against the desk. Papers scattered like startled birds. "There is no delay, Annie! Do you think Nate Reynolds will wait? Do you think the investors will show mercy?" His voice cracked, a raw edge of despair beneath the fury. "Delay means bankruptcy. Delay means humiliation. Delay means I rot in prison while this family name is dragged through the mud!"

The words struck like blows. My chest tightened, breath coming shallow.

He leaned forward, eyes boring into mine. "You think I don't see the vultures already circling? They will tear us apart the second they smell weakness."

I shook my head, tears stinging my eyes. "But I can't-Papa, I can't marry him. That's Amelia's place, not mine. I won't live a lie."

"You won't-" He broke off, laughless, furious. He came around the desk, closing the distance in three heavy steps. His hands gripped my shoulders hard enough to bruise. "Listen to me, Annie. Would you watch your family lose everything? Would you watch me dragged from this house in handcuffs? Would you let your mother's legacy burn to ash because of your sister's selfishness?"

My lips trembled. His words carved deep, pulling at every thread of duty I'd carried since childhood. Mama's voice rose in my head, soft but heavy as stone: Our name is a crown, Annie. But a crown can strangle just as easily as it can shine.

"I..." The word broke. I bit down hard, tasting salt and copper on my tongue. "Papa, please..."

His grip tightened. His eyes softened for the briefest second, just enough for me to see the cracks-the fear, the desperation. "I'm asking you, Annie. Save us."

The fight drained from me like water through cupped hands. Terror coiled in my stomach, but above it loomed guilt, thick and suffocating. How could I refuse when every breath of my father's sounded like a plea for survival?

When I finally nodded, his hands fell away, trembling. He exhaled, shoulders sagging, as if I had pulled him back from a cliff.

The preparations began almost immediately.

The seamstress bustled into Amelia's room, pins clutched between her teeth, fabric draped over her arms. "Stand straight, Miss Annie. No, no-chin higher, shoulders back." She tugged and tucked, her fingers swift and impersonal as she fitted the gown to me.

The satin was cold against my skin, too heavy, too tight. I stared at the mirror, but the woman looking back wasn't me. Her lips were pale, her eyes wide and hollow, swallowed by lace and pearls. A ghost of someone else's life.

Two maids whispered as they laced the corset. One's hands shook, fumbling with the ribbons. "Careful!" the seamstress snapped, slapping them away. "We don't have time for mistakes."

Their eyes darted to me, wide with pity, but they said nothing.

I wanted to scream. To rip the dress off and run barefoot into the rain, to vanish before they could chain me with vows that weren't mine. But I stood still, spine rigid, the crown of Mendes duty pressing tighter, choking the breath from me.

"Perfect," the seamstress muttered, stepping back. She adjusted the veil, letting the lace spill like mist over my face. "You could be her twin."

My chest ached. I pressed trembling fingers to the glass, tracing the reflection. The veil blurred my features, blotted me out until only the gown mattered.

"This isn't me," I whispered. My voice was muffled by the lace, the words trembling in the empty air. "This is Amelia's wedding."

From the doorway, a shadow fell across the room. My father stood there, face hard, eyes unreadable.

"No." His voice was ice. "This is yours now."