Chapter 1 · A Stand-In For Ten Years

Allen and I had been treated like walking organ donors by the Wood family ever since we were kids.

It was all to keep their daughter Claire, who suffered from heart disease, alive.

The year I turned eighteen, Allen took me and escaped that hell.

From then on, we leaned on each other for ten years, and I became his wife.

Later, something destructive happened to the Wood family, leaving Claire all alone, her heart problem worsening, and her life hanging by a thread.

To my surprise, Allen brought her home without even asking me.

He told me he wanted her to die right in front of us, lost and broken.

I believed every word he said.

But then I found out he'd secretly tested my heart, checking if I was a match for Claire.

When I confronted him, he just locked me in my room.

Allen said, "Grace, I promised I'd keep you alive. After the surgery, you'll be with her forever in a way you never imagined."

It turned out I was nothing but a spare heart prepared for the woman he really loved, right from the start.

Even that so-called escape was just another part of his twisted plan to keep me under his control.

*****

The metal lock snapped shut, trapping me in the room where I'd been kept for ten years.

From outside the heavy door, Allen's voice came, cold as ice.

"Grace, behave. Don't force me to make you quiet another way," he shouted.

Everything spun out of control a month ago when Allen brought a woman home.

It was Claire.

She wore a washed-out hospital gown, her skin dulled to an unhealthy gray after years of sickness. The face that was once vicious and pampered was reduced to sheer helplessness.

"She's dying," Allen said flatly as he settled her into the guest room. "The doctors say she's got maybe three months left. Letting her stay here, watching how happy we are, seeing you, the spare part she always thought you were, living a good life, that's the best revenge."

I believed him.

Honestly, we both despised Claire.

The Wood family never took us in because they cared.

Claire was born with a fragile heart, and to them, we were nothing more than spare parts on legs, her personal blood bags and organ dispensers.

Since we were kids, every single meal, every drop of water was tightly controlled.

There was no room for mistakes. Getting sick or injured wasn't allowed. We had to stay in perfect shape, always ready to hand over a piece of ourselves, or even our whole life, just for her.

That humiliation and fear were etched deep inside us.

So when Allen said he wanted Claire to die hopelessly, I didn't object.

I even felt a dark, secret pleasure just watching her suffer, peering through the crack in the door each day as she writhed in pain.

It looked like Allen's payback was really working.

He'd act like a gentle husband in front of Claire, feeding me by hand, peeling every shrimp so carefully, then giving her all that fake sympathy.

He'd say, "Claire, look at Grace now. She's got the life you always dreamed of. She can eat all the seafood you once adored, and you, well, you can't even catch a whiff without struggling to breathe."

Claire's eyes would always be swimming with tears, but not a single word came out.

I thought this was Allen's cruel little ritual, a twisted tribute to everything we'd gone through.

But three nights ago, I discovered Allen would enter Claire's room alone after midnight.

That night, I woke up to use the bathroom and realized Allen wasn't on the bed.

I crept barefoot to the guest room door. The door was slightly open, and a thin strip of light leaked out.

Allen was kneeling by Claire's bedside, his back to me.

Even on his knees, there was still an air of cold nobility about him.

He cupped Claire's hand and pressed it to his face, almost like he was worshipping her. I'd never seen Allen look at anyone that way before.

Claire was lost in sleep, her brows drawn tight, her expression twisted in agony.

Allen reached out with his other hand, softly smoothing her brow as he murmured to her.

He said softly, "Claire, don't be scared. It'll all be over soon. Soon, you'll be able to breathe, to run, just like anyone else."

At that moment, I felt my blood freeze.

I'd known Allen for twenty years, and he'd always been calm, composed, even a little distant.

Even with me, the most I ever got from him was a sense of protection and responsibility, not this kind of tenderness that bordered on obsession.

I didn't make a sound, just slipped back to my room and lay awake all night.

The next day, with Allen out of the house, I snuck into his study and opened the drawer with my spare key.

Inside, I found a box, locked tight.

I was certain the password was my own birthday.

I tried three times, but they were all wrong.

Almost without thinking, I pressed Claire's birthday instead.

With a tiny click, the box unlocked and swung open.

Instead of the proof or files I was hoping for, there was only a fat, well-worn sketchbook inside.

My hands trembled as I flipped it open. Every single page was sketched with the same face.

It was Claire.

There she was, laughing in a princess dress in the garden, daydreaming by the window, and looking all smug after snatching the last piece of meat from our dinner plates.

Every drawing showed her buzzing with life, bright-eyed and carrying that bold sparkle of someone who'd always gotten her way.

Allen's touch was delicate, and so heartfelt that it felt like he wanted to make every second of her come alive on the page, desperate not to let even a single memory slip away.

The last page looked barely started, like he couldn't bring himself to finish it.

Chapter 1

Allen and I had been treated like walking organ donors by the Wood family ever since we were kids.

It was all to keep their daughter Claire, who suffered from heart disease, alive.

The year I turned eighteen, Allen took me and escaped that hell.

From then on, we leaned on each other for ten years, and I became his wife.

Later, something destructive happened to the Wood family, leaving Claire all alone, her heart problem worsening, and her life hanging by a thread.

To my surprise, Allen brought her home without even asking me.

He told me he wanted her to die right in front of us, lost and broken.

I believed every word he said.

But then I found out he'd secretly tested my heart, checking if I was a match for Claire.

When I confronted him, he just locked me in my room.

Allen said, "Grace, I promised I'd keep you alive. After the surgery, you'll be with her forever in a way you never imagined."

It turned out I was nothing but a spare heart prepared for the woman he really loved, right from the start.

Even that so-called escape was just another part of his twisted plan to keep me under his control.

*****

The metal lock snapped shut, trapping me in the room where I'd been kept for ten years.

From outside the heavy door, Allen's voice came, cold as ice.

"Grace, behave. Don't force me to make you quiet another way," he shouted.

Everything spun out of control a month ago when Allen brought a woman home.

It was Claire.

She wore a washed-out hospital gown, her skin dulled to an unhealthy gray after years of sickness. The face that was once vicious and pampered was reduced to sheer helplessness.

I believed him.

Honestly, we both despised Claire.

The Wood family never took us in because they cared.

Claire was born with a fragile heart, and to them, we were nothing more than spare parts on legs, her personal blood bags and organ dispensers.

Since we were kids, every single meal, every drop of water was tightly controlled.

There was no room for mistakes. Getting sick or injured wasn't allowed. We had to stay in perfect shape, always ready to hand over a piece of ourselves, or even our whole life, just for her.

That humiliation and fear were etched deep inside us.

So when Allen said he wanted Claire to die hopelessly, I didn't object.

I even felt a dark, secret pleasure just watching her suffer, peering through the crack in the door each day as she writhed in pain.

It looked like Allen's payback was really working.

He'd act like a gentle husband in front of Claire, feeding me by hand, peeling every shrimp so carefully, then giving her all that fake sympathy.

Claire's eyes would always be swimming with tears, but not a single word came out.

I thought this was Allen's cruel little ritual, a twisted tribute to everything we'd gone through.

But three nights ago, I discovered Allen would enter Claire's room alone after midnight.

That night, I woke up to use the bathroom and realized Allen wasn't on the bed.

I crept barefoot to the guest room door. The door was slightly open, and a thin strip of light leaked out.

Allen was kneeling by Claire's bedside, his back to me.

Even on his knees, there was still an air of cold nobility about him.

He cupped Claire's hand and pressed it to his face, almost like he was worshipping her. I'd never seen Allen look at anyone that way before.

Claire was lost in sleep, her brows drawn tight, her expression twisted in agony.

Allen reached out with his other hand, softly smoothing her brow as he murmured to her.

He said softly, "Claire, don't be scared. It'll all be over soon. Soon, you'll be able to breathe, to run, just like anyone else."

At that moment, I felt my blood freeze.

I'd known Allen for twenty years, and he'd always been calm, composed, even a little distant.

Even with me, the most I ever got from him was a sense of protection and responsibility, not this kind of tenderness that bordered on obsession.

I didn't make a sound, just slipped back to my room and lay awake all night.

The next day, with Allen out of the house, I snuck into his study and opened the drawer with my spare key.

Inside, I found a box, locked tight.

I was certain the password was my own birthday.

I tried three times, but they were all wrong.

Almost without thinking, I pressed Claire's birthday instead.

With a tiny click, the box unlocked and swung open.

Instead of the proof or files I was hoping for, there was only a fat, well-worn sketchbook inside.

My hands trembled as I flipped it open. Every single page was sketched with the same face.

It was Claire.

There she was, laughing in a princess dress in the garden, daydreaming by the window, and looking all smug after snatching the last piece of meat from our dinner plates.

Every drawing showed her buzzing with life, bright-eyed and carrying that bold sparkle of someone who'd always gotten her way.

Allen's touch was delicate, and so heartfelt that it felt like he wanted to make every second of her come alive on the page, desperate not to let even a single memory slip away.

The last page looked barely started, like he couldn't bring himself to finish it.