For five years, everyone I knew looked at me with a mix of pity and scorn. They all said the same thing: I was nothing more than a placeholder for Conrad Wells. I was the temporary fix, the cheap replica, waiting to be tossed out the moment the original—his legendary ex—decided to claim her rightful place. They laughed at my blatant efforts to please Conrad. They pitied the desperation they saw in the way I clung to him. What none of them knew was the profound irony of it all. The only reason I ever entered Conrad’s orbit was because she orchestrated it. I took the money she offered, hired the best coaches for etiquette and posture, and even consulted a drama professor on the nuances of mimicry. I was a professional stand-in, and my performance was so good that Conrad never once lost interest. For my dedication, I received a substantial bonus from the "original" every year. With two weeks left on my contract, her final text arrived: [I land next week. Find a reason to break with Conrad before then. You need to disappear from Aiken, permanently.] After typing a swift, one-word reply—"Done"—I shredded the fresh sonogram report I’d been clutching. The paper scraps floated down into the waste bin. Then, I forwarded Conrad a reservation for a private booth at a Michelin-starred spot downtown. [Heard they changed the menu. Any chance you have time to try it out this week?] … While I waited for Conrad’s reply, I drove to a tiny, unassuming clinic tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. It was run by Doc Davies, a kind old man who specialized in natural healing. The minute his granddaughter, Maya, saw me, she yelled, "Grandpa! Elle’s here!" She’d been glued to her tablet, probably playing some intense mobile game. A familiar thump-thump echoed from the back room—the sound of the old man's cane. “Girl, you weren’t due for a follow-up,” Doc Davies called out, his voice thick and raspy from years of telling everyone how to stop shouting. “What’s hurting now?” He pushed aside the wooden bead curtain, squinted at me, and then his eyes widened slightly. “Well, I’ll be,” he murmured. “Look at your aura. You’re expecting, aren’t you?” Maya instantly abandoned her game, scrambling to help me onto the consultation chair. After a long, silent moment of hearing my pulse, he finally smiled a calm, small smile. “Just two months. Your health is stable, but your constitution is weak, as we both know. You need to be extra careful.” He gave me a prescription for prenatal supplements. I also grilled him for any old-school remedies that might curb extreme morning sickness. After we talked for a while—just small talk, the kind I missed from my isolated life with Conrad—my throat suddenly felt dry. "Doc Davies," I finally choked out, my voice rough. "I actually came to say goodbye." He looked at me intently, his eyes deep with understanding. Then he sighed. "It was always going to happen, wasn't it? Wherever you go, take care of yourself." His gaze dropped to my still-flat abdomen, and his expression turned complicated. "And take care of that child." On my way out, while Maya was distracted at the counter, I slipped an envelope containing a bank card and the access code into her favorite, battered medical textbook. It was tucked right in the middle, a place she’d look a hundred times a day. I gave them both a formal, heartfelt farewell. They had saved my life once; they deserved everything. Back in the car, I checked my phone. Still nothing from Conrad. I should have been used to the silence. It was his signature move. But knowing this might be the last text I’d ever send him openly made my chest ache. I felt a desperate need to flee before I lost my resolve. I pulled up a map, found a quiet, distant city on the West Coast, and booked a one-way flight for the following week. The confirmation text arrived right as Conrad’s reply finally buzzed through: [Out of town until Friday. Spencer will reach out to schedule something after I return.] I typed a hollow "OK." Scrolling back through our brief, years-long history of texts, the screen was overwhelmingly green—my messages—with only sparse patches of white—his replies. Most of them were me initiating a plan, and him deflecting with the same formula: Spencer will contact you. As a high-ranking public servant, Conrad was busy. I understood that. But his identical, detached tone with me, compared to his colleagues or staff, was a constant, icy reminder: Don’t expect anything. Don’t fall completely in love. My vision blurred with tears again and again. I swiped up until my eyes stung with fatigue. I stopped at his profile picture—the one I had stared at countless times. It was a stark image of a lone, ancient lighthouse on a rocky cliff. The Beacon. I’d heard the whispers at parties. Since I had no real standing, his friends and associates felt free to discuss his past right in front of me. They said The Beacon was a tribute to his great lost love, Adeline Fox. They claimed I was only kept around because my eyes were a seven-out-of-ten match for Adeline’s, and my name, Elle, was a subtle nod to her middle name, Elise. The comparison had stopped stinging a long time ago; it just felt numb. No one knew I had chosen the name Elle Regan specifically because of those rumors. Conrad being out of town was a mixed blessing. It meant no last-minute, painful interactions, but it also made packing easier. A baby required a budget. Soon, I’d lose the substantial income from Adeline and the free housing from Conrad. Until I delivered and found stable work, I had to be frugal. I remotely leased a small apartment in my destination city and arranged for all my belongings to be shipped ahead of time. I had to save every dollar. The day after I found out I was pregnant, the nausea hit. I tried every remedy Doc Davies suggested. Nothing worked. Even a sip of water made my stomach revolt. After I ate a small dinner only to immediately lose it all, I regretted making our final outing a restaurant meal. The physical distress, coupled with the terror of Conrad discovering my secret, made me curl up on the sofa and weep. I almost changed my flight to leave immediately. Then, Conrad appeared on the news. Amidst a cluster of aging dignitaries, his sharp, reserved face stood out. He was standing slightly back, yet the camera found his profile constantly. I replayed the brief segment until my emotional meltdown began to subside. I placed a hand on my still-flat stomach and spoke to the tiny life inside me, my voice a soft, desperate plea. “Please, Kit. Don’t upset your mama. Not yet. I can’t let your father know you exist. Can you just be a good boy until we’re far away?” Whether it was psychological or a lucky coincidence, the sickness eased slightly. I managed to cook a small meal, and this time, while I felt waves of nausea, I didn't throw up. I felt a rush of fierce excitement, gently patting my stomach and thanking the baby. I accelerated my packing pace, working constantly between rest breaks. I managed to ship the first batch of boxes before Conrad’s scheduled return. Spencer Zhou, Conrad’s right-hand man, called right as the courier drove off. “Ms. Regan,” Spencer’s tone was polite but sterile. “Mr. Wells has an hour free at five P.M. this afternoon. Please be ready.” I immediately called the restaurant manager, placed an order based on Conrad’s known preferences, and stressed that we had very little time. At five o’clock on the dot, Conrad walked in. I couldn’t stop the genuine smile that spread across my face when I saw him, but I quickly tamped down the emotion, meeting his eyes as he sat opposite me. “Your color is bad. Are you feeling ill again?” It was a rare moment of unprompted concern, and my heart hammered wildly in my chest. My hands clenched under the table. I gave him a practiced, careless shrug. “It’s just the heat, I think. Not much appetite these last few days.” Conrad nodded. He glanced at the limited menu and called the server over. “Add the chilled cucumber salad, please. Make sure the spice is minimal.” I inhaled slowly, reminding myself: That’s just his ingrained good manners. It means nothing. I barely touched my food, except for the cucumber salad he ordered. But since I’d already claimed to have a poor appetite, he didn’t notice. After he set his fork down, he mentioned needing to rush back for a public hearing. As he started to rise, I spoke the rehearsed line, sharp and clear. “I want to get married, Conrad. And I need a future that includes children. This... needs to end.” Conrad froze, his head bowed slightly as he looked at me. A light knock came at the door. Spencer’s low voice followed. “Sir, the meeting starts in thirty minutes. We have to go.” Conrad ignored him. His gaze remained locked on me, filling the room with the suffocating presence of a powerful man kept waiting. I held my breath, terrified he would see the lie in my eyes. “The meeting will be two hours,” he finally said. “We’ll finish this conversation when I return.” He finally broke eye contact. Just as his hand touched the doorknob, his deep voice softened slightly. “It’s rush hour. Drive carefully.” I didn’t move until I saw his black town car pull away from the curb. Then, I collapsed back into the leather chair, gasping for air. I waited almost an hour before driving home, worried my shaky state would cause an accident. Standing in the entryway of his penthouse, I scanned the room. Everything seemed normal. Conrad wouldn’t notice anything had changed. That foolish hope evaporated the second he walked in. “The photo on the media cabinet,” he said flatly, pouring a finger of scotch. “The picture of us is gone. It’s just my single portrait now.” I was stunned by his swift, brutal perceptiveness, but I held my ground. “I’m leaving, Conrad. I can’t exactly take my things when I go, so I thought I’d start getting rid of anything that belongs only to me.” He didn't respond immediately. He took a seat in the single armchair by the fireplace, sipping his drink. “Why the sudden urge to marry? Did you meet someone you want to settle down with?” His cold, reasoned tone was a physical stab in my chest, but I maintained a bland smile. “I’m twenty-seven. You were never going to marry me, but I can certainly find a man who will. I always told you I wanted a home and a family.” Conrad downed the drink in one swallow. The sound of the glass hitting the mahogany table was synchronized with his next sentence. “I’ll have Spencer transfer the house and car to you immediately. And I promise you this: should you ever find yourself in real trouble, you get one call. I will use every resource I have to help you, as compensation for your time.” Thinking of the baby, I didn't refuse. Perhaps it was the fact that I had been a quiet, uncomplicated presence for five years. Or perhaps he saw the ghost of Adeline in my acceptance. Either way, he added one final, stinging instruction before he left. “I know every eligible bachelor in Aiken. Tell Spencer who you’re seeing. I’ll run a background check. I don’t want some opportunistic bastard taking advantage of you.” I waited until the door had been closed for a long time before whispering, “Okay.” I’d always known how this would end, yet the reality was crushing. I couldn’t breathe. Terrified of jeopardizing the baby with a massive emotional breakdown, I found a mindless comedy on TV and forced myself to watch. I drifted off to sleep through the sound of canned laughter. In my dream, I was sixteen again. Conrad, only a few years out of college, peeled off his expensive wool coat and draped it over my filthy, ragged shoulders. He wasn’t the stoic public figure he was now. I saw the pure pity in his eyes, and something else—a fleeting, almost paternal tenderness. When the vile man who had bought me struggled against the police, screaming obscenities, Conrad stepped in front of me and gently covered my ears. “You’re a good girl,” he said. “We were just late. That’s all. You just suffered because we were late.” He stroked my hair. “You’re so young. Think of this as a terrible nightmare. The world is huge out there. You’ll see beautiful things, you’ll find a man who loves you deeply, you’ll have a wonderful baby, and you’ll live the life you want…” In the final, disjointed moment of the dream, I had that beautiful baby. But then Conrad showed up, furious. He accused me of running away while pregnant, of denying the Wells bloodline, of sentencing his child to a life of poverty and scorn. His expression was one of such pure disgust—the look he’d never once given me in our five years together—that I woke up gasping. I lay there for a long time, the nightmare's residue a cold, heavy lump in my chest. A soft chime. The front door intercom. It was Spencer. “Ms. Regan, these are the transfer documents. Signatures here and here, and the house and vehicle are yours.” I signed Elle Regan swiftly. The moment he left, I contacted a local realtor and put the house on the market, priced to sell quickly. I had three days left. I wasn’t afraid of Conrad knowing I’d sold the house or that I was leaving Aiken. The nightmare had been terrifying, but I knew the real Conrad. He was decisive. When something was finished, it was finished. I was, after all, just a chapter. The lower-than-market price meant the house sold the very next day. The buyer, meeting my condition, paid cash in full and rushed the transfer paperwork before the county clerk's office closed. The car was another matter. Too impractical to drive cross-country, and selling it felt wrong. I called Doc Davies and Maya. Seeing the old man again, he immediately tried to hand back the bank card. I stopped him with a single sentence. “Doc, if you hadn't intervened that year, I would have died. Consider that money the delayed bill you deserve. You wouldn't want me to spend the rest of my life feeling guilty, would you?” He wavered. I pushed further. “I want to give the car to Maya. If anyone asks about me—especially anyone connected to the Wells family—please, don’t mention the pregnancy.” Relieved that I had secured their silence and given them something substantial, I was finally free. On the morning of my flight, I went into the bathroom and took out my kit. I held the prosthetic adhesives, the color palettes, and the specialized wax—the tools that had made me Adeline's double—and burned them in a heap in the sink. The smell was acrid. Looking at my reflection, the face that was now only three-tenths a match for Adeline Fox, I managed a stiff, awkward smile. Just in case, I put on dark sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat. I was crossing the lobby to the airport gate when I saw them—Conrad and Adeline—exiting the international arrivals lounge together. Perhaps he sensed my stare. Conrad looked up, and our eyes met. It was only a fraction of a second before Adeline’s voice pulled his attention away. I kept walking, my pace steady. Goodbye, Conrad, I whispered in my mind. Goodbye, my light.
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