Chapter 1

On our wedding night, my husband drank so heavily fending off everyone's toasts that he passed out completely.

The bridesmaids roped us into a game of Truth or Dare. I lost, and the punishment was to go through my partner's phone for five minutes.

I'd braced myself for flirty texts or a hidden savings fund. Instead, I found his secret WhatsApp account.

His statuses were packed wall-to-wall with obsessive posts about another woman.

Ethan Cole: [Emily, I can never have you. So I settled for someone who looks just like you—someone who also goes by Milly.]

[I had a mole tattooed on her inner thigh. Now she's nearly your mirror image.]

[She loves mangoes, but you don't. So I secretly laced her food with peanuts she's deathly allergic to. She'll never touch mangoes again.]

*****

The bridal suite reeked of liquor, bustling with loud and rowdy chaos.

The bridesmaids shoved me onto the bed, pressing a King's Game card into my hand. The room erupted in laughter and shrill cheers. Ethan Cole slouched on the couch, his tie hanging loose, his face flushed bright red like he'd been burned.

He drank so heavily fending off endless toasts that he passed out stone-cold unconscious.

"Claire! Claire! You lost the King's Game again!" Sophie Lane, my college roommate, clapped and yelled, clearly wasted. " Come on, pick! Truth or dare?"

I smiled, resting a hand gently on my baby bump, and shook my head. "I'm pregnant, you know. I can't handle your crazy dares right now."

"Then truth! Hit her with something good!" someone shouted.

But I glanced at Ethan, slumped half-unconscious on the couch, and before I could stop myself, I blurted, " I choose... to go through Ethan's phone for five minutes."

The room went dead silent for a beat, then exploded into hoots and shouts.

"Going through your husband's phone on your wedding night? Claire, you're brutal!" Someone exclaimed.

"Ethan's done for! He better start begging!"

I smiled as I took Ethan's phone from Sophie, saying casually, "Just messing around, I'll only take a quick look." But my fingers were already swiping to unlock the screen.

I couldn't even explain why. Maybe it was the look Ethan gave me mid-toast, just before he drank himself senseless—it was too tangled, muddled, nothing like how a groom should look at his bride.

There was affection, unease, and for a split second, it felt like he was staring right through me, completely lost in someone else.

I told myself I was just overthinking.

I couldn't believe it—his phone wasn't even locked, which took me by total surprise. I opened WhatsApp, and my chat was pinned straight to the top: saved as "Milly," with a red heart emoji right next to my name.

Everything seemed totally normal.

I scrolled down—just work messages, a few chats with friends. Nothing off, nothing suspicious.

Almost without thinking, something urged me to switch accounts.

I couldn't name what drove me. Maybe it was that nickname "Milly." He'd never called me that. To him, I was always Claire, or sometimes just "baby." But "Milly" felt too intimate, too personal—like it belonged to someone else.

The account switch screen popped up, showing two profiles.

One was his main, everyday account. The other was a secret one, with a blurry silhouette for a profile pic—you couldn't make out a single feature.

I tapped it open.

The chat list was completely empty—no conversations at all. But his statuses had recent updates.

I opened them.

The second I started scrolling, all the noise in the room faded to white noise.

The first post was a blurry photo of a woman in a white dress, her long hair falling over her shoulders, standing on a rooftop. Dated three years ago—the summer we first met.

The caption read: [Emily, I met a girl today. From the side, she looks just like you. Her smile is exactly the same.]

My finger froze on the screen.

Emily Sparks.

I'd never heard that name in my life.

I kept scrolling.

The second post was a picture of a coffee cup with a bunny latte art. Dated the day Ethan and I went on our first date.

[I took her to your favorite cafe. She said she didn't like it bitter, so she added three sugars—just like you always did.]

The third post had no photo, just text. Dated two years ago, the night I agreed to be his girlfriend.

[Emily, she said yes. Her name is Milly. It sounds so much like yours. When I held her hand, I couldn't help thinking... If only it were you.]

My eyes darted around the room. Everyone was still laughing and fooling around—someone handed me a juice box, another snapped photos. No one paid the slightest attention to what I was doing.

I looked down and kept scrolling.

The fourth post was a photo: a thigh with a black mole on the inner side. Dated two years ago. I remembered the first time he saw the mole on my thigh. He'd stared at it for ages and said, " So beautiful."

Back then, I actually believed he was talking about me.

The caption read: [I had her get a mole tattooed on her inner thigh, so she'd look even more like you. She thought it was just a cute little thing and was so happy about it. But Emily, it's in the exact same spot as yours.]

Instinctively, I squeezed my legs together.

That mole was a tattoo. I wasn't born with it.

I'd always thought it was real. I even checked it again and again, certain it was natural. If he said it looked nice, I believed it looked nice.

It had never been for me.