Chapter 1
Evelyn Hart woke at six in the morning, right on schedule.
A familiar, twisting pain gripped her stomach, as if an invisible hand was wringing her insides. She curled up beneath the sheets and clutched the fabric until her knuckles turned white. Cold sweat seeped from her temples and dampened the loose strands of hair along her face.
Every morning for the past three years had started exactly like this.
Evelyn had been diagnosed with late-stage stomach cancer, but her husband, Richard Lane, wanted her gone. His first love had come back, and that was all it took.
*****
When the sharp wave of pain finally passed, Evelyn sat up slowly. A glass of water sat on the nightstand, lukewarm now, left there from the night before. Tiny droplets clung to the glass, catching the faint morning light.
She took small sips and let the water slide down her throat, soothing her restless stomach for the moment.
The bedroom was large and empty. Richard was not there. He had not come home last night, but that was nothing new. He rarely spent the night here, and even when he did, he came in late and left before dawn.
Most of the time, this bedroom and its king-sized bed belonged to her alone.
Evelyn swung her bare feet off the bed and onto the cold marble floor. She walked to the window and pulled open the heavy curtains.
Early autumn sunlight slanted in, casting a warm golden patch across the polished floor. In the garden outside the villa, the sycamore leaves had started to turn yellow, and a few drifted down, spinning lazily in the morning breeze.
She watched the falling leaves for a long time.
Then she turned and walked into the bathroom. The woman in the mirror looked pale, with faint dark circles under her eyes. Her hair fell loose and tangled over her shoulders, making her face look smaller and more fragile.
She really did look like Claire Winters, especially in profile and around the eyes. The first time Richard saw her, he had stared at her profile for a full minute before he said, "You'll do."
Three simple words, and they had defined the last three years of her life.
Evelyn finished washing up and changed into a cream-colored knit sweater paired with light gray slacks. It was the kind of outfit Richard liked, simple and soft, like Claire.
She used to own so many bright, colorful clothes, but she had packed them all away. Richard said Claire didn't like bold colors.
She went downstairs and walked into the kitchen.
Because Claire preferred it, she cooked the bacon until it was just crispy, fried the eggs sunny-side up, toasted the bread to a perfect golden brown, and ground the coffee fresh.
Her hands moved on autopilot. Three years was more than enough time to turn anything into muscle memory.
Her stomach started hurting again.
This time it was worse than before. She had to stop what she was doing and grip the edge of the counter, breathing in deep.
Her vision went dark for a moment, and a low buzzing filled her ears. By the time her sight cleared, she could see her hands trembling.
Pain had a way of making a person feel completely helpless.
She bit down on her lower lip until she tasted blood, and then she went back to frying the eggs.
At seven-thirty, she heard noise from the front hall. Richard was home.
Evelyn carried breakfast out of the kitchen and found him at the entryway, changing his shoes.
He wore a black suit, perfectly pressed, with a tie knotted so precisely it looked like it could be in a magazine. He glanced up at her, his gaze distant and flat, as though he were looking at a piece of furniture.
"Morning," she said softly.
"Mm." He gave a short reply and walked toward the dining room.
She set the plate down in front of him and took the seat across from him. The arrangement required it. She was supposed to join him for breakfast, even though he rarely said a word.
Richard picked up the coffee and took a sip. His brow furrowed. "Too bitter."
"I'll make a fresh pot." She stood up immediately.
"Don't bother." He set the cup down and started on the bacon.
Silence spread across the table, broken only by the faint clink of silverware against porcelain. Evelyn sipped her milk slowly, her stomach churning, and she forced herself to push through the discomfort.
"Claire is coming back today," Richard said suddenly.
Evelyn's hand froze. The glass of milk shifted slightly in her grip, and the pale white liquid rippled inside it. She set it down. Her fingertips were ice cold.
"What time does she land?" she asked, and her own voice sounded so calm it surprised her.
"Three in the afternoon." Richard cut into his egg without looking up. "There's a welcome dinner tonight. You don't need to come."
"Okay."
Silence settled over them again.
Richard finished the last bite of his toast and dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin. He looked at her, his gaze lingering on her face for a few seconds. Evelyn lowered her eyes and turned away from his stare.
"You haven't looked well these past few days," he said.
"I'm just a little tired," she replied.
"The agreement expires in one month." Richard stood and adjusted his cuffs. "Once it's over, I'll give you enough money to live on."
Evelyn lifted her head and looked at him. Morning light poured in from behind him, gilding the edges of his silhouette and hiding his expression.
She suddenly remembered that afternoon three years ago at the art gallery, when he had stood against the light the same way and said, "You'll do."
She had just graduated from college then, and her grandmother, Alisha Hart, was sick and needed money. Richard's offer was too generous for her to refuse.
Three years in exchange for Alisha's medical bills and a life that looked glamorous on the surface.
"Okay," she said again.
Richard seemed about to say something more, but his phone rang. He answered and walked toward the door, talking as he went. He paused at the threshold and glanced back at her.
Evelyn sat at the dining table with her back perfectly straight and a flawless smile on her face. It was an expression she had practiced for a long time—gentle, obedient, and bulletproof.
The door closed, and her smile collapsed.
She slumped over the table as her stomach twisted in on itself. The pain was worse this time, sharp and grinding, like a knife turning inside her.
Cold sweat soaked through the back of her dress and clung to her skin. She clenched her teeth and refused to make a sound.
She couldn't cry, couldn't whimper, couldn't show any weakness. That was the bare minimum of being a stand-in.
She didn't know how long it lasted before the pain finally began to ease. She gripped the edge of the table and pulled herself to her feet, but her legs buckled and nearly gave out.
She made it to the living room, dug through a drawer for painkillers, and swallowed two dry.
The medication was slow to kick in, and the ache still gnawed at her.
She picked up her phone and booked a clinic appointment. Then she started clearing the table.
Most of the bacon was untouched, the eggs had only one bite taken out of them, and the coffee sat nearly full. She scraped the food into the trash, washed the dishes, and wiped down the counter.
Every movement was mechanical, like a robot running through its programming.