Reborn To Swap Husbands With My Sister

The sensation of falling was not like flying. It was heavy. Violent.

Wind screamed against her eardrums, tearing at her hair, but it couldn't drown out the sound of the fire roaring above them. The heat from the burning ducal manor still clung to her skin, a phantom scorch mark.

Andria looked down at her hand. She was gripping Blossom's wrist. Blossom's eyes were wide, reflecting the flames, but there was no fear in them anymore. Only a twisted sort of triumph.

Above them, on the crumbling balcony, Duke Cato Sears turned his back. He held Bianca in his arms, shielding her face from the smoke, walking away from the edge. Walking away from them.

Andria laughed. The sound was ripped from her throat by the wind, a jagged, ugly thing.

Then came the impact.

Darkness didn't fade in. It slammed shut like a heavy iron door.

Andria sat up.

Her lungs heaved, sucking in air that tasted of lavender and air conditioning, not smoke and burning flesh.

Her hands flew to her throat. Smooth skin. No blood. No crushed vertebrae.

She scrambled backward, her spine hitting the padded headboard with a dull thud. The pain was sharp, grounding. Real.

She looked around. Sunlight filtered through the cream-colored curtains. The silk sheets beneath her sweating palms were cool and pristine. This wasn't the cold, damp dungeon of the Sears estate. This was her bedroom. Her old bedroom in the Dawson manor.

She grabbed the iPhone from the nightstand. Her fingers were shaking so violently she almost dropped it. She tapped the screen. The light blinded her for a second.

June 14, 20xx.

The air left her lungs in a rush.

Three days. She was back three days before the engagement ball. Three days before her life was sold to a man who would eventually watch her die without blinking.

A laugh bubbled up in her chest, bordering on hysteria. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle it. Tears pricked her eyes-not of sadness, but of sheer, overwhelming relief mixed with a hatred so potent it tasted like bile.

She threw off the covers and ran to the bathroom. She turned the faucet on full blast and splashed freezing water onto her face. Once. Twice.

She gripped the edges of the porcelain sink until her knuckles turned bone-white. She stared at the girl in the mirror. She looked young. Her skin was pale, her eyes wide and haunted. But the weakness that had defined Andria Dawson for twenty years was gone.

In its place was something cold. Something sharp.

Knock. Knock.

The sound was soft, tentative.

"Andria? Are you awake?"

Andria's stomach lurched. She knew that voice. It was sweet, like syrup masking the taste of poison.

Blossom.

Andria closed her eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. She forced her heart rate to slow down. She loosened her grip on the sink. When she opened her eyes again, the sharpness was gone, buried under a layer of practiced fear.

She walked to the door and opened it.

Blossom stood there. She was wearing a tweed Chanel suit, pink and immaculate. Her hair was perfectly coffered. She looked at Andria, and for a split second, her mask slipped.

Andria saw it. The confusion. The panic. The way Blossom's eyes darted over Andria's face, searching for something.

Blossom was checking to see if Andria was the same.

She remembered.

"You slept in," Blossom said, her voice tight. "Are you feeling okay?"

Andria leaned against the doorframe, letting her shoulders slump. "I had a nightmare," she whispered, rubbing her temple. "I feel terrible."

Blossom's shoulders relaxed. A small, cruel smile touched the corners of her lips. She thought Andria was still the pathetic little sister she could manipulate. She thought she was the only one who had come back.

"Poor thing," she cooed, reaching out to touch Andria's arm. Her skin felt cold against Andria's. "You need to rest. The Masquerade is in three days. You want to look your best for... everyone."

Blossom didn't say Cato's name. But Andria saw the greed flare in her eyes. In their past life, Blossom had rejected Cato because of the rumors about the war. She had pushed Andria into his arms. Now, she knew he would become a war hero. A Duke with power.

She wanted him.

"I know," Andria said, lowering her eyes. "I'm just so nervous."

"Don't be," she said, her confidence returning in full force. "I'll help you pick a dress. There's a green one that would look... perfect on you."

The green dress. The one with the long train. The one that made Andria trip by the pool.

Andria nodded, digging her fingernails into her palm to keep from smiling. "Thank you, Blossom. You're always so good to me."

"Hurry up and get dressed," Blossom said, turning away. "Daddy is waiting for breakfast."

Andria watched her walk down the hall. Her steps were brisk, purposeful. She was marching toward her future as a Duchess.

Go ahead, Andria thought, closing the door softly. Take him. Take the abuse. Take the bankruptcy. Take the hell that awaits in that house.

She dressed quickly and went downstairs.

The dining room was silent, save for the clinking of silverware against fine china. Her father, Garrick Dawson, sat at the head of the table, not hidden behind a newspaper, but openly scrutinizing a financial report. His gaze flickered up as Andria entered, cold and assessing, as if measuring her value before a crucial sale.

"Morning, Daddy," Andria said softly.

He grunted. "Don't be late again, Andria. It reflects poorly on the family."

She sat at the far end of the table. Her step-grandmother, the Dowager Countess, was already buttering a scone for Blossom.

"You look radiant today, Blossom," the old woman said, ignoring Andria completely.

"I feel radiant," Blossom said, beaming. "Tonight is the night everything changes. Duke Cato Sears will be there. It's going to be the most important night of my life." Her tone was one of absolute certainty, as if reading from a script only she possessed.

Andria picked up her knife and fork. She sliced into the fried egg on her plate. The yolk spilled out, yellow and runny.

Andria watched Blossom talk about Cato. She looked like a starving dog eyeing a piece of meat.

She took a bite of her breakfast. It tasted like victory.

Blossom didn't waste time.

She marched into Andria's room two hours later, a stylist trailing behind her like a nervous pet. The stylist held a garment bag as if it contained the Crown Jewels.

"Show her," Blossom commanded, sitting on Andria's chaise lounge and crossing her legs.

The stylist unzipped the bag. The dress was a pale, sickly green. It was covered in excessive lace and ruffles, the kind of thing that looked expensive but dated.

"It brings out your eyes," the stylist lied, her voice trembling slightly. Blossom had clearly paid her well.

Andria walked over to the dress. She ran her hand down the fabric. It felt stiff. Her fingers traced the seam at the waist. It was barely held together by a few loose threads. One wrong step, one deep breath, and the whole thing would split open.

"It's beautiful," Andria said, her voice flat.

"Try it on," Blossom urged. Her eyes were fixed on the dress, anticipating the humiliation.

"Of course."

Andria took the dress and walked into the changing room. She spotted the cup of coffee she had left on the side table earlier. It was cold now, a dark, murky pool.

She didn't hesitate.

She tipped the cup. The brown liquid splashed onto the lace bodice, soaking into the fabric instantly. It looked like a grotesque wound.

"Oh no!" Andria shrieked.

She stepped out of the changing room, holding the ruined dress. "I'm so clumsy! I knocked over my coffee!"

Blossom shot up from the chaise. Her face went red. "You idiot! Do you know how much that cost?"

The stylist looked horrified, but Andria saw a flash of relief in her eyes. She wouldn't have to be responsible for the wardrobe malfunction later.

"I'm so sorry," Andria sniffled, dropping the dress on the floor. "I don't have anything else to wear..."

Blossom glared at Andria. She was furious, but she couldn't scream. Not in front of the staff. It would break her perfect, lady-like facade.

"Fine," she snapped. "Wear that old black thing in your closet. The velvet one. It's hideous, but it's better than going naked."

Andria hid her smirk behind her hand. "Thank you, Blossom."

The night of the Masquerade, the air was thick with humidity and expensive perfume.

The Dawson limousine pulled up to the Sears estate. Cameras flashed, blinding white explosions in the dark.

Blossom stepped out first. She was wearing a custom pink gown that took up half the backseat. She waved to the press, her smile practiced and wide. She clung to Garrick's arm, soaking in the attention.

Andria stepped out after them.

The black velvet dress hugged her frame. She had spent the afternoon altering it herself, lowering the back until it dipped dangerously low, exposing the sharp curve of her spine. It was simple. Stark. Mournful.

She slipped a black lace mask over her eyes. It obscured her identity, leaving only her red lips and jawline visible.

Blossom glanced back at Andria. Her nose wrinkled. "You look like you're going to a funeral."

"Maybe I am," Andria murmured.

They entered the ballroom. It was a sea of color and noise. Waiters wove through the crowd with trays of champagne.

Andria grabbed a glass and immediately drifted away from her family. She found a spot in the shadows, near a heavy velvet curtain. From here, she could see everything.

She saw him.

Duke Cato Sears stood in the center of the room. He was wearing his military dress uniform, medals gleaming under the chandelier light. He was handsome, in a classic, boring way. Square jaw. Blonde hair. Arrogant smile.

Blossom made a beeline for him. She practically threw herself into his orbit, laughing too loudly at something he said.

Cato looked bored. His eyes scanned the room, looking for an escape.

Then, his gaze landed on Andria.

She felt the weight of his stare. The black dress made her stand out against the pastels and jewels of the other women. She was an anomaly.

Andria didn't smile. She didn't wave. She met his eyes for a second, let her gaze drift over him with palpable disinterest, and then turned her back.

She sipped her champagne, counting down in her head.

Three. Two. One.

She felt a presence behind her. But it wasn't Cato.

"He's looking at you," a voice hissed.

Blossom.

She had abandoned her prey to come mark her territory. Her face was flushed with anger.

"I can't help where he looks," Andria said, not turning around.

"Stay away from him," Blossom whispered venomously. "He's out of your league."

"Gladly."

Andria saw Bianca Sears across the room. She was swaying slightly, a drink in her hand. She was heading toward the French doors that led to the pool.

The stage was set.

"I'm going to get some air," Andria said, walking away from Blossom. She headed toward the doors.

She knew Blossom would follow. She was too insecure to let Andria out of her sight.

As Andria stepped out onto the terrace, she glanced up. On the second-floor balcony, hidden in the shadows, sat a figure in a wheelchair.

He was watching.

Prince Cameron Kaufman.

Andria felt a shiver run down her spine that had nothing to do with the night air. The real player had arrived.

The air by the pool was cooler, heavy with the scent of chlorine and night-blooming jasmine.

Bianca Sears stood perilously close to the edge of the water. She was laughing at something one of her sycophants had said, swaying on her heels. She was drunk. Sloppy.

Andria stopped a few feet away.

Blossom marched up behind her, her heels clicking aggressively on the stone tiles. She grabbed Andria's arm, her nails digging into Andria's flesh.

"Go get Bianca's shawl," she hissed, pointing to a bench on the other side of the pool. "She's shivering. It's a good chance to show Cato how thoughtful we are."

We. As if she would ever share the credit.

"Okay," Andria said meekly.

She pulled her arm free and walked toward Bianca. She didn't head for the shawl. She headed for the space directly behind Bianca.

Blossom followed, hovering like a vulture, ready to push Andria or scold her if she messed up.

Andria timed it perfectly.

As she passed Bianca, Andria stumbled. It was a small, calculated misstep. Her shoulder bumped into Bianca's arm. Not hard. Just enough.

"Oh!" Andria gasped.

Bianca's center of gravity shifted. She flailed, her arms pinwheeling.

"Help!" she shrieked.

Her hand shot out, grasping for anything to anchor her. Her fingers tangled in the tulle of Blossom's pink skirt.

Blossom's eyes went wide. She tried to pull back, but the momentum was already against her.

Splash.

The sound was enormous. Water sprayed up onto the deck, soaking Andria's velvet shoes.

"My dress!" Blossom screamed, surfacing and spitting out water. Her wig was askew, revealing the dark roots underneath. Her mascara was already running down her cheeks in black rivulets.

Bianca was thrashing next to her, clearly too intoxicated to swim properly.

Andria fell back onto the dry tiles, landing gracefully on her hip. She pressed her hands to her mouth. "Help! Someone help! They fell in!"

The commotion drew everyone's attention. The French doors flew open.

Cato burst onto the terrace. He saw the two women in the water. He didn't hesitate. He dove in, uniform and all.

He swam past Blossom.

He wrapped his arm around Bianca, pulling her against his chest. "I've got you," he said, his voice thick with panic. "I've got you, B."

Blossom was left paddling like a drowning dog. "Cato! Cato, help me!"

Cato looked annoyed. He had one arm around his beloved cousin-lover, and now he had to deal with the nuisance. He reached out his other hand and grabbed Blossom's wrist, dragging her toward the steps.

It was a pathetic tableau. The Duke, soaking wet, clutching his cousin intimately while dragging Andria's sister like a sack of potatoes.

Cameras flashed. The paparazzi had found their way to the hedges.

Click. Click. Click.

This photo would be on every front page by morning. The Duke's Wet Threesome.

Andria sat on the ground, trembling. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing two perfect tears to roll down her cheeks.

But inside, she was laughing.

She looked up.

On the balcony above, Prince Cameron lowered the binoculars he had been holding. Even from this distance, she could see the pallor of his skin. He looked like a ghost.

He turned to the man standing beside his wheelchair-his head of security, Mason. He said something, then looked back down at Andria.

Their eyes locked.

He didn't look concerned. He looked... amused.

He knew.

He had seen the stumble. He had seen the setup.

Andria didn't look away. Slowly, deliberately, she lowered her head in a deep, respectful nod. A bow.

I see you seeing me.

Cameron's lips quirked upward. He raised a hand in a mock salute, then wheeled himself back into the shadows.

Down below, Cato hauled the women onto the deck. Blossom threw herself at him, shivering violently. "Oh, Cato, I was so scared!"

She buried her face in his wet chest, sobbing.

Bianca, meanwhile, refused to let go of Cato's hand. She glared at Blossom with pure malice.

The crowd murmured. The scandal was palpable.

Andria stood up and grabbed two towels from a nearby cart. She walked over and handed one to Cato, and one to Bianca.

She left Blossom shivering in the cold.

"Are you alright, Your Grace?" Andria asked Cato, her voice soft.

Cato looked at Andria. He looked at the dry, elegant woman in black velvet, then down at the soggy, hysterical mess clinging to his jacket.

Regret flashed in his eyes.

"I'm fine," he grunted.

Andria turned and walked away, leaving them to their mess.