Chapter 2

Camille Vale.

Grant's college sweetheart. The campus legend.

They had sung a duet at their graduation gala. Shortly after, Camille went abroad, and they lost touch. After the breakup, her name became a forbidden subject. No one dared mention it around Grant.

Years later, when I submitted my resume to Whitaker Holdings, it was a shot in the dark. My education was average. Aside from photography, I had no standout skills, and a receptionist didn't need to know how to frame a shot.

To my shock, HR called me in for an interview the very next day. And I got the job.

When I eventually married into the Whitaker family, the high-society whispers were relentless. They all said the same thing: I was just a cheap stand-in for Camille.

I looked at the airport photo again.

Camille had long, glamorous waves. Her profile was sharp, her nose perfectly straight. She had an aggressive, striking kind of beauty.

I looked up at the mirror in my hallway.

Round face. A little bit of baby fat.

We weren't even the same species.

A strange sense of relief washed over me. All those snobs whispering that I was Camille's clone were just trying to sound smart.

Tessa texted again.

My wedding is at the end of the month. You and Grant need to show up together, looking flawless, so these vultures stop writing fanfiction about your life.

I replied: You just saved me.

She spammed me with kiss emojis.

I went to my closet to figure out what to wear.

I tried on three dresses. None of them would zip past my waist.

I turned sideways, staring at my stomach in the mirror. I really had put on weight. But my appetite had been garbage all month.

That weekend, I took a cab to an Upper East Side boutique to buy something new.

I found a stunning champagne-pink slip dress and carried it toward the fitting rooms.

When I stepped out, a tall, familiar figure was standing in the lounge area.

Grant. His back was to me. He was looking down, adjusting the sequined hem of a woman's dress.

The woman was wearing a champagne-pink gown.

All three of us froze.

Grant's gaze shifted from my face down to my waist. He lingered there for two seconds.

"It makes you look heavy," he said flatly. "Change."

I looked down at myself. Was it really that obvious?

The woman turned around and lifted her chin at me.

"You must be Nora. I'm Camille. Are you shopping for Tessa's wedding too? What a coincidence."

I forced a polite curve to my lips. "Hello."

Camille reached over to a nearby rack and pulled out a dark grey, straight-cut dress. The tailoring was stiff, the color depressing.

"This one is very forgiving on the figure," she said, her voice dripping with faux sweetness. "The fabric is soft. Want to try it?"

I hated it. I opened my mouth to decline, but Grant beat me to it. He pushed the grey dress away, his face darkening.

"No. It's too matronly."

Camille blinked up at him.

Grant's tone was ice. "At Tessa's wedding, people will assume I picked out her outfit. That would make me look tasteless."

Camille's smile fractured. Her voice dropped half an octave.

"Grant, maybe I just shouldn't go. Your divorce with Ms. Hale isn't finalized yet. If someone takes a video, the gossip could ruin the wedding."

Grant fell silent.

Tessa was my childhood best friend. Her husband was Grant's college alum. Grant and I were on the same invitation. There was no avoiding it.

He thought for a moment, then looked at me.

"Do you have to go? Given our current situation, people will talk."

I looked at his hand, resting lightly near Camille's wrist. A hollow ache opened up in my chest.

"I am going to Tessa's wedding," I said evenly. "She won't let anyone humiliate me. You don't need to worry about my feelings."

In my book, Tessa was a million times more reliable than Grant.

When we first got married, Whitaker Holdings hosted a charity gala. A pack of Upper East Side socialites had cornered me with champagne, "congratulating" me while making it painfully clear I was a nobody who had married into money.

After that night, it was Tessa who taught me how to identify vintage wines, navigate a ballroom, and smile while throwing their passive-aggressive insults right back in their faces.

I paused, looking Grant dead in the eye.

"If her being there is a problem, neither of you has to go. I really don't care."

I turned on my heel and walked back into the fitting room.

Grant didn't say another word.