Mated To My Dead Husband's Twin

It felt like a cruel joke to Elise.

"You are going to be late, Elise."

Her mother's voice was a sharp pinch, but Elise barely felt it. She was too busy staring at the woman in the mirror. The woman looked like her. She had Elise's dark hair, pinned up in a twist so tight it pulled at her temples. She had Elise's brown eyes, though they looked glassier than usual. But the diamond earrings weighing down her lobes didn't feel like hers. They felt like cold anchors.

Elise adjusted the left one. Her fingers were trembling. Just a little. A subtle vibration that traveled up her arm and settled as a knot in her stomach.

The door to the dressing room opened. Jarret walked in. He didn't look at Elise. He looked at his wrist, checking his watch with a frown that had become his permanent expression over the last six months of their engagement.

"The car is waiting," he said.

Elise turned on the stool. Her silk robe slipped off one shoulder. "Do you like the earrings? Your mother sent them," she asked.

"They're fine," Jarret said. He was already typing on his phone. "Did you pack the blue dress for the brunch tomorrow? The press loves that color on you."

"I asked about the honeymoon, Jarret," Elise said, her voice quiet. "We haven't talked about the schedule."

He finally looked up. His eyes were blue, piercing, and completely empty of warmth. He looked at Elise like she was a constituent he was trying to rush through a handshake line.

"It's just a formality, Elise. You know that. I have meetings in Paris. You'll shop. We'll take photos. Stop trying to make it a romance novel."

He turned his back to Elise. His phone buzzed. He answered it immediately, his voice dropping an octave.

"I have to take this. It's private."

He walked out. The door clicked shut.

Elise sat there in the silence of the massive Barrett estate, feeling the humiliation burn her cheeks. It wasn't a hot fire. It was a cold burn, like dry ice. She was marrying into a dynasty. She was becoming a Barrett. She should feel lucky.

Instead, she felt like she was walking toward a cliff edge.

The ceremony was a blur for Elise. She remembered the flash of cameras, the heavy scent of lilies that filled the air with a cloying sweetness, making her head feel tight and dizzy, and the way Jarret's hand felt dry and lifeless when he slid the ring onto her finger. He smiled for the crowd. He kissed Elise, but his lips were firm and unyielding, a seal on a contract rather than a promise.

Night fell. The reception ended. Elise sat on the edge of the bed in the master suite. The duvet was silk. Everything in this house was silk or marble or gold. Cold textures.

She dreaded the door opening. She dreaded the obligation of the wedding night. Jarret had made it clear that their physical relationship was just another duty, like cutting ribbons at library openings.

The handle turned.

Elise stiffened, her spine locking up.

The man who entered didn't stride in like he owned the floorboards. He hesitated. He stood in the doorway for a second, his silhouette framed by the hall light.

He closed the door and turned off the main chandelier, leaving only the soft, amber glow of the bedside lamps.

"Elise?"

The voice was Jarret's. But it sounded... thicker. Textured. Like gravel wrapped in velvet.

Elise looked up. He was loosening his tie. His movements were jerky, unsure. Not the smooth, practiced motions of the politician she had married hours ago.

"I'm ready," Elise said. It came out as a whisper. She flinched when he walked toward the bed. She expected a critique. She expected him to tell her to lie back and get it over with.

He stopped by the side of the bed. He saw Elise flinch.

He paused. His hand hovered in the air between them.

Then, slowly, incredibly slowly, he reached out. His fingers didn't grab. They brushed the stray hair behind her ear. His skin was warm. Calloused. Jarret's hands were never calloused.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. He wasn't looking at Elise's body. He was looking into her eyes, searching for something. "The stress of the day... I'm sorry if I was distant."

Elise's heart did a strange, painful flip in her chest. "It's okay," she managed.

He sat down next to Elise. The mattress dipped. He smelled different. Under the expensive cologne, there was something earthy. Sweat and soap and heat.

He leaned in. Elise closed her eyes, bracing for the hard press of his mouth.

But his lips were soft. Tentative. He kissed her like he was asking a question, not stating a fact.

The kiss deepened. It became desperate. There was a hunger in him that terrified and thrilled Elise. His hands moved over her back, pulling her closer, as if he was afraid she would disappear.

For the first time all day-for the first time in six months-Elise didn't feel cold. She felt like she was burning up.

They fell back onto the pillows. It wasn't the mechanical act Elise had feared. It was intense. He was attentive to every breath she took, every sound she made. It felt like an apology. It felt like a goodbye.

When Elise woke up, the sun was cutting through the heavy drapes.

She reached out for the warmth next to her. The sheets were cold.

She sat up, pulling the sheet to her chest. The room was empty. On the pillow next to hers, there was a piece of hotel stationery.

Elise picked it up. The handwriting was hurried, jagged.

Duty calls. Wait for me.

There was no signature. No flourish. Just five words.

Elise traced the ink with her thumb. The knot in her stomach was gone, replaced by a confusing, fragile hope. Maybe marriage changed men. Maybe the mask had slipped, and she had seen the real Jarret.

Two months later.

The garden of the Barrett estate was in full bloom. It was a riot of manicured colors, pinks and whites that looked too perfect to be real. Elise was hosting a charity brunch. It was her job now.

Joyce Barrett, her mother-in-law, stood by the hydrangea bushes. She was wearing a grey suit that cost more than Elise's father's car.

"The centerpieces are too low," Joyce said, not looking at Elise. "They look cheap, Elise. Fix it next time."

"Yes, Joyce," Elise said. She smiled. She had perfected the smile. It didn't reach her eyes, but it showed her teeth.

A hush fell over the crowd.

It started at the back, near the buffet tables. Conversation died out like a candle being smothered. People stopped eating. They reached for their phones.

Elise frowned. She looked for Nina, her assistant.

Nina was rushing across the grass. Her face was pale, the color of old paper. She was holding a tablet with both hands, her knuckles white.

"Elise," she gasped. She didn't call her Mrs. Barrett.

She shoved the tablet into Elise's hands.

The screen was bright in the sunlight. The red banner at the bottom of the news feed screamed: BREAKING NEWS: DIPLOMATIC CONVOY BOMBED.

Elise's breath hitched. The location. It was where Jarret was.

Her phone rang in her clutch. It was a jarring, violent sound.

Joyce was there instantly. She snatched the phone from Elise's hand before she could look at the screen.

"Hello?" Joyce barked into the phone. "This is Joyce Barrett."

Elise watched her face. The iron mask she wore crumbled. Her lips parted. Her eyes went wide, staring at nothing.

She dropped Elise's phone. It hit the grass with a soft thud.

"He's gone," Joyce whispered. She wasn't looking at Elise. She turned her head toward the house, toward the massive oil painting of Jarret that hung in the foyer.

The world tilted for Elise. The sounds of the garden rushed back in-gasps, whispers.

"Widow," someone murmured behind Elise.

"The heir," someone else said.

Elise looked down at her stomach. Her hand moved there on its own. A reflex. She hadn't told anyone yet. She wasn't even sure until this morning.

She felt numb. The memory of that wedding night, the heat, the tenderness, crashed into the reality of the explosion. The man who had touched her so gently was gone. Vaporized.

"Turn up the volume," Joyce commanded Nina.

The news anchor's voice was tinny coming from the tablet.

"...confirmed fatalities include Jarret Barrett. However, reports indicate one survivor was pulled from the wreckage."

Elise held her breath.

"Jayden Barrett, the twin brother, has been identified as the sole survivor. A spokesperson noted the identification is provisional and was confirmed by the Barrett family pending formal review."

Elise blinked. Jayden. The soldier. The quiet one she had only met twice. The gentle husband was dead. The soldier had survived.

It felt like a cruel joke to Elise.

The house smelled like death.

It was a sickly sweet smell, a mixture of thousands of lilies and the expensive perfume of people who came to gawk at their tragedy. The staff moved like ghosts, silent and terrified of making a sound.

Elise sat in the parlor. Her dress was black. Her stockings were black. Even her thoughts felt black.

She felt like a prop. A doll placed on a sofa to complete the scene of "Grieving Family."

Her mind drifted. It was a defense mechanism. She went back to a dinner, six months ago.

Flashback.

The dining room table was long enough to land a plane on. Joyce sat at the head. Jarret was to her right. Jayden was to her left.

They were identical physically. Same dark hair, same sharp jawline. But everything else was different. Jarret sprawled in his chair, taking up space. Jayden sat with a military stillness, his spine not touching the back of the chair.

"The speech was brilliant, Jarret," Joyce said, cutting her steak. "The polls are up three points."

"I know," Jarret said. He swirled his wine. He looked across the table at his brother. "Maybe Jayden can learn something. If he ever decides to get a real job."

Jayden didn't look up from his plate. He was wearing his dress uniform. "I'm deployed next week, Jarret."

"Playing soldier," Jarret scoffed. Under the table, Elise saw Jarret's polished shoe kick Jayden's shin. Hard.

Jayden didn't flinch. He just took a sip of water. His eyes met Elise's for a second. They were sad. Resigned.

End Flashback.

"Tragic."

The voice snapped Elise back to the present.

Cristine Velazquez stood in the doorway of the parlor. She was Elise's cousin, technically. A distant relation on her mother's side who had somehow latched onto the Barrett social circle like a barnacle.

She wasn't wearing black. She was wearing a navy blue dress that was too tight across the chest and definitely too short for a house of mourning.

She walked past Elise without looking at her. She went straight to the mirror above the fireplace and checked her lipstick.

"But he died a hero," Cristine said to her reflection. She smacked her lips. "That's good for the brand."

Elise stared at her. Cristine's eyes were bright. She didn't look like she had been crying. She looked... energized. Like she had just drunk a double espresso.

Joyce entered the room. She looked haggard, her skin grey, but her hair was perfect.

Joyce walked right past Elise. She went to Cristine and hugged her. It was a warm, genuine embrace.

"We must be strong for the cameras," Joyce said, pulling back and smoothing Cristine's hair.

"I'm ready, Aunt Joyce," Cristine said. She wasn't actually her aunt.

"Joyce," Elise said. Her voice sounded rusty. "When is the funeral? I haven't been told the arrangements."

Joyce turned to Elise slowly. Her eyes were cold stones.

"Jayden will handle the body transfer," she said. She spat the name Jayden like it was a curse word. "He is the survivor."

"I should be there," Elise said. "I am his wife."

Cristine pulled her phone out. She scrolled through something, a small smile playing on her lips.

Elise caught the reflection of Cristine's screen in the mirror. It was a text message. There was a giant red heart emoji.

At a time like this?

"Good news, Cristine?" Elise asked, sharpness leaking into her tone.

Cristine locked her phone instantly. "Just condolences, Elise. People love me. Unlike some."

The heavy oak doors opened. Mr. Henderson, the family lawyer, walked in. He was carrying a briefcase that looked heavy enough to contain bricks.

"Joyce," Mr. Henderson nodded. He ignored Elise.

"Family business, Elise," Joyce said, waving a hand at Elise like she was a fly. "Go rest. You look terrible."

"I am family," Elise said, standing up.

Cristine laughed softly. It was a mean, tinkling sound. "For two months. Hardly a matriarch, sweetie."

Joyce caught the eye of the security guard standing in the hall. He took a step forward. A silent threat.

Elise looked at them. The mother, the cousin, the lawyer. A wall of ice.

She turned and walked out. She went up the grand staircase, her legs heavy. But she stopped at the landing. The acoustics in this house were strange; if one stood in the right spot, the sound from the parlor funneled up.

Elise leaned over the banister, hidden by the shadows.

Cristine was pouring herself a drink from the crystal decanter. She looked like she had won the lottery.

"We need to secure the trust before the will is read," Joyce was saying to the lawyer. Her voice was urgent. "If she finds out about the clauses..."

"We need her signature," the lawyer murmured.

Elise stepped back from the banister. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

She wasn't just a widow. She was a liability. And they were plotting to cut her out before Jarret's body was even back on American soil.

Elise needed to find her copy of the prenup. Now.

The limousine smelled of leather and stale mints.

They were in a motorcade of black SUVs, winding their way toward the National Cathedral. Elise was stuck in the middle seat, sandwiched between Joyce and Cristine.

Joyce was staring out the window, muttering talking points to herself. Cristine was fixing her hair in a compact mirror, her elbow digging into Elise's ribs every few seconds.

Cristine capped a bottle of water. Her hand slipped.

Cold water splashed over Elise's lap, soaking the black silk of her dress. It looked like a dark stain spreading across her thighs.

"Oops," Cristine said. She didn't look sorry. Her eyes gleamed with malice. "Clumsy me."

Joyce didn't even turn her head. "Cover it with your purse, Elise. Don't look sloppy."

Elise gritted her teeth. She took a napkin and dabbed at the water. She wouldn't let them see her cry. Not over water. Not over anything.

The car stopped. The doors opened.

The flashbulbs were blinding. It was a wall of white light. The noise was deafening-shouting reporters, clicking shutters.

Elise stepped out. She held her head high, clutching her purse over the stain. She walked up the cathedral steps, her heels clicking on the stone.

Inside, the air was cool and heavy with incense. The elite of D.C. were there. Senators, generals, lobbyists. A sea of black suits.

Elise stood by the closed casket. It was draped in a flag. She didn't know if Jarret was actually inside, or if it was empty. The explosion reports had been... graphic.

A Senator approached them. He was a silver-haired man with a face like a bulldog. He took Joyce's hands.

"A tragedy for the nation, Joyce," he said. He nodded vaguely in Elise's direction.

Cristine stepped forward, cutting Elise off. She placed a hand on the Senator's arm.

"It's so hard," she murmured, batting her eyelashes. She was acting like the grieving widow.

Elise felt a surge of anger. It started in her toes and shot up to her throat.

She stepped around Cristine. She extended her hand to the Senator.

"Senator," Elise said, her voice firm. "My husband spoke highly of you."

It was a lie. Jarret had called him an old fool. But the Senator didn't know that.

He looked surprised, then charmed. He took Elise's hand. "You are very brave, Mrs. Barrett."

Cristine glared at Elise. Her nostrils flared.

They sat in the front pew. The service began. The organ music vibrated in Elise's chest.

Halfway through the eulogy, Cristine leaned over. Her breath smelled of peppermint and gin.

"Did you even know him, really?" she whispered.

Elise kept her eyes on the altar. "Better than you."

Cristine let out a small, sharp breath. "I wouldn't bet on that."

The words sent a chill down Elise's spine. It felt too specific. Too knowing.

The service ended. They moved to the reception hall.

The room was hot. Too many bodies. Too much noise.

A wave of dizziness hit Elise. The floor seemed to tilt to the left. She grabbed the back of a chair to steady herself, a sudden queasiness rising in her throat.

She needed water. She needed air.

Elise retreated to a quiet corner, near a large potted fern. She sipped a glass of water, trying to stop the room from spinning.

She looked across the crowded room.

There was a man standing near the exit. He was wearing a dark suit. He was watching her.

Elise's heart stopped.

It was Jarret. The posture. The tilt of the head.

She blinked. She rubbed her eyes.

When she looked again, the space was empty. Just a waiter carrying a tray of champagne.

"It's just grief," Elise whispered to herself. "Hallucinations."

But her hands were shaking so bad the water sloshed in the glass.

She needed to leave. She needed to secure her future.

Elise pulled out her phone. She dialed her bank's automated line. She needed to check her personal savings, the money she had before the marriage.

Access Denied.

She tried again.

Account Frozen. Please contact the branch.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog of grief. They had moved faster than she thought.

Elise spotted Nina across the room. Nina was holding a tray of appetizers, looking miserable.

Elise grabbed her arm as she passed.

"Go to the house," Elise whispered. "Get me a copy of the prenup from the safe. Now."

Nina looked at Elise's face. She saw the fear. She nodded once and disappeared into the crowd.

Elise stood there, surrounded by the most powerful people in the country, and realized she was completely broke. And completely trapped.