1 The morning after my identical twin brother died in a mangled wreck on the interstate, I married his fiancée. That very afternoon, Vivian printed thousands of copies of Ian’s autopsy report and handed them out across our social circle, publicly branding me as his killer. Overnight, I became a pariah. My parents disowned me on the spot, stripping my name from the family trust. For the three years that followed, our marriage was a public bloodsport. Vivian kept the tabloids fed with an endless rotation of men she dragged back to our penthouse. She made me stand in the hallway outside our master bedroom, listening to the rhythmic creak of the bed and her breathless moans. When it was over, she would call me in, hand me her digital camera, and command me to photograph the wreckage of her sheets and the smirking faces of her lovers. I endured every ounce of it without a word of protest. My only plea—whispered in the quiet moments between her cruelties—was for a child. Vivian only ever sneered at me. "Sean, how can someone be so pathetic?" she would spit, looking down at me with pure disgust. "If you’re that starved for a woman, hire one. Crawling around my feet like a stray dog in heat—doesn't it sicken you? You think putting a baby in me will tie me down? Let me make this clear: never. Not in this lifetime." To crush whatever shred of hope I had left, she escalated. She bought an expansive equestrian estate in the countryside and converted the private stables into luxury suites for her retinue of lovers. Among her wealthy friends, it became a running joke: The thoroughbreds Vivian keeps out in the country have infinitely more spine than the golden retriever she keeps chained at home. I took it all, counting down the days in silence, until a text message arrived from my mother-in-law: Sean. Remember our agreement. The three years are up. You have one week left to settle everything. I stared at the glowing screen, the air catching hard in my throat. I lifted my eyes. Across the VIP booth of the dimly lit lounge, Vivian was draped over a man named Trevor Davis, her bare thigh pressed flush against his. This was the one hundred and eighth time I had walked into a room to catch her. Vivian didn’t flinch. Neither did the circle of friends surrounding them; instead, a collective ripple of mocking laughter broke out across the leather banquettes. "Look, Vivian," one of her close friends drawled, swirling her martini. "Your little shadow tracked you down again. Come to beg for a baby, Sean?" "Three years and he still hasn't gotten the hint," another chimed in, smirk dripping with venom. "Is he really that desperate?" The insults scraped against my ears, but Vivian simply arched a brow, utterly unbothered. Without taking her eyes off me, she reached out, hooked her manicured fingers into Trevor’s tie, and pulled him down until her lips pressed firmly against the hollow of his throat. The booth erupted into drunken cheers and whistles. "Come on, Vivian," someone shouted over the bass. "How does Trevor measure up to the stable boys out at the farm?" "Is that even a question?" another laughed. "Anything with a pulse is an upgrade from Sean." Vivian slowly released Trevor’s tie, leaving a smear of dark plum lipstick stamped against his pale skin. She leaned back against the cushions, her expression languid and dismissive. "Those boys out at the farm don't compare to Trevor," she said casually. "In fact, I'm shutting the stables down. I’m focusing entirely on him now." A hushed murmur washed through the lounge, and dozens of amused, pitying eyes swung back toward me. My hands hung at my sides, knuckles whitening before my fingers finally went slack. In all the one hundred and seven times before this, Vivian had treated her flings like disposable toys. She had never spoken about any of them like this. Trevor was the only one who had lasted more than a few weeks. He was also the only one whose jawline, build, and posture were a mirror image of my dead brother. Swallowing the bitter copper taste in my throat, I kept my voice steady, though it came out cracked and hollow. "It’s late, Vivian. Come home." Vivian scoffed, and Trevor looked up at me with open amusement. "Ah, the famous Mr. Campbell," Trevor said smoothly, his arm tightening around Vivian's waist. "I’ve heard so much about you. Every time you catch Vivian, you beg her to come home... and beg her to give you an heir, right?" He let out a soft, mocking chuckle at the end, prompting another wave of snickers from the couch. I didn't answer him. I kept my gaze fixed entirely on Vivian. Eventually, irritated by my silence, she shoved Trevor aside and stood up. "Sean, aren't you sick of this?" she snapped, stepping toward me. "If you don't care about your dignity, I still care about mine. You want a child that badly? Fine." She snapped her fingers toward the private curtain behind the bar. Within seconds, half a dozen young women in cocktail dresses stepped forward, lining up neatly beside the booth. Vivian crossed her arms over her chest, watching me with cold amusement. 2 "Pick one," Vivian said, gesturing lazily toward the row of women. "Or take all of them. I'm not stingy. If you want an heir so badly, I'll pay to have every single one of them in your bed tonight." A roar of laughter exploded across the private lounge. Men whistled, and someone shoved me roughly from behind toward the line of women, egging me on to make a selection. I let out a slow, quiet breath. The sharp, persistent ache in my chest had long since calcified into something numb. "No need," I said softly. "Do whatever you want from now on. I won't interfere anymore." The laughter in the booth cut off. A strange, uneasy silence settled over the room. For three years, I had surrendered every ounce of self-respect just to bring her home. I had wiped the mud from her lovers' designer shoes; I had quietly cleaned up the penthouse after their reckless, drunken nights. This was the very first time I had ever pushed back. Vivian blinked, visibly caught off guard, before her brow furrowed with deep suspicion. "What kind of game are you playing now—" Before she could finish, my phone buzzed violently in my pocket. I looked down at the caller ID, went silent, and turned around. I stepped out into the quiet corridor, pulling the heavy door shut behind me to block out Vivian’s probing gaze. I answered the call. "Sean," my mother-in-law's voice came through the receiver, crisp and detached. "Tomorrow is the anniversary of Ian's death. Three years, and Vivian still hasn't forgiven you. You haven't fulfilled our agreement, either." She paused, the static on the transatlantic line humming between us. "I'm flying back to the States next week. I expect you to have everything finalized before I land." I stared down at the polished marble floor. Through the heavy wood of the door behind me, I could hear the muffled sounds of laughter and the wet, intimate murmur of Vivian kissing Trevor. "I understand," I replied quietly. "I'll do as we agreed." 3 February eighth was the anniversary of Ian's death. Ever since my parents severed ties with me three years ago, I was barred from setting foot in the family plot at Oakridge Cemetery. Every year, I drove up into the hills, parked down the winding road, and waited for hours until my parents and Vivian finished their vigil before I dared approach his grave. "Mom, Dad, this is Trevor," Vivian’s voice floated down through the morning mist, freezing me in my tracks. "He looks so much like Ian, doesn't he?" I looked up through the bare branches of the oak trees. My parents, their eyes red and swollen, were staring at Trevor with raw, tender reverence. My mother stepped forward, wrapping her arms around the stranger, weeping openly against his shoulder. "He does... God, he looks so much like him. It’s like our boy is standing right here..." A dull, sharp throb pulsed behind my eyes. Instinctively, my hand rose to touch my own cheek. If anyone looked like Ian, it was me. We shared the exact same bone structure, the same hazel eyes, the same genetic code. But to them, my face was a crime scene they refused to look at. Driven by an irrational, hollow ache, I stepped out from behind the tree line. "Mom. Dad." The two words shattered the fragile peace like a stone through glass. Vivian's eyes instantly darkened with venom. Before I could take another step, my father lunged forward and slammed his open palm across my face. The crack echoed through the quiet cemetery. "What right do you have to show your face here?" my father roared, his chest heaving with fury. "If it weren't for you, your brother would be standing here today, you worthless bastard!" My mother, who had once been the gentlest soul I knew, pointed a trembling finger at me, screaming with visceral hatred. Even after three years, their malice had not diminished; it had only fermented. My ears rang violently. I tasted iron where my teeth had cut into the inside of my cheek. "The crash killed Ian, but you walked away," my father snarled, his eyes bulging. "You planned it, didn't you? To steal the family business, to take everything that was his! I don't have a son named Sean. You were erased from this family the day Ian died. You don't get to stand near his grave!" Every word hit like a rusted blade through my ribs. I took a ragged breath and, with trembling fingers, unbuttoned my wool coat and pulled my shirt up from my waist. A jagged, thick, ten-inch surgical scar stretched across my lower abdomen, pale and ugly in the winter air. "I was in the passenger seat," I choked out, my voice breaking. "The impact ripped me open. I was in a coma for two weeks—I couldn't have tampered with anything. I didn't kill him..." "Then why wasn't it you?" my mother shrieked, tears streaming down her face. "Why did it have to be Ian? Why couldn't you have died instead?" A suffocating cold settled deep into my marrow. I stood there, staring at my mother's tear-streaked, furious face, and slowly dropped my shirt. They had never wanted the truth. They had simply wanted the wrong twin to be in the ground. 4 "Vivian," Trevor’s voice cut through the heavy silence, smooth and carefully performative. He stepped closer to her, their fingers interlacing. "Didn't you tell me Sean never comes here? Why did he show up today?" He paused, widening his eyes in feigned horror. "Is it because I look like Ian? Did he come here to finish me off, too?" "Shut your mouth," I snapped, the blood rushing hot to my head. Seeing the calculating smugness dancing behind Trevor's eyes, the last thread of my composure snapped. I lunged forward, throwing a desperate right fist straight at his jaw. I never reached him. Two of Vivian’s personal security guards tackled me from the side, slamming my chest hard against the damp, frozen turf. I twisted my neck, looking up in shock. Vivian stood above me, her face like carved granite, her eyes devoid of any human warmth. "Trevor's right," she said coldly. "You've never learned your place. You think you can throw your weight around in front of Ian's headstone?" She gestured to one of the guards, who handed her a heavy wooden walking cane from the trunk of her car. She gripped it with both hands and brought it down violently across my right knee. A sickening crack splintered the quiet air. Agony tore through my nervous system, white-hot and blinding. I dropped to both knees before Ian’s granite marker, a strangled scream tearing from my throat. "You're a murderer," Vivian hissed, her voice vibrating with unhinged rage. She struck my legs again and again, the heavy wood thudding against bone and muscle until my vision blurred and black spots swarmed my sight. "What right do you have to stand on his ground?" Blood soaked through my trousers, staining the frozen grass around the grave. A few feet away, my parents watched without a flicker of remorse; my mother simply turned her face into my father's coat. Trevor leaned against the neighboring headstone, pulled out his phone, and began filming my trembling, bleeding frame on the ground. "A photo of the great Sean Campbell like this," Trevor murmured, smiling slightly, "ought to fetch a fortune from the press." Vivian finally lowered the broken cane, her chest heaving, and tossed it into the dirt. "Nobody call him an ambulance," she instructed the guards coldly. "Let him crawl back."
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