My Husband Doesn't Know I'm the Wrong Bride

Ivy

Vivian Clairmont had to be dead by tomorrow morning.

At least, that's what the middleman said.

I tilted my head, listening to the distant clamor drifting through the manor—the bachelor party crowd, those silver-spoon heirs and heiresses celebrating the eve of Vivian Clairmont and Sebastian Sinclair's wedding. The Clairmonts had spared no expense for this occasion, even inviting several other prominent families, because the Sinclairs held no small share at the Round Table, and Sebastian Sinclair himself was the youngest of the Twelve Seats. This marriage might just be the Clairmont family's last shot at resurrecting their dying fortune.

Everyone was looking forward to tomorrow's wedding.

Everyone except Vivian Clairmont herself.

I stood in the manor's storage room, running through my equipment checklist. Plan A's poison was packed inside a capsule—easy enough to crack open when needed. Plan B depended on the client's requirements; the middleman had only said "contingent on circumstances." Plan C was the backup: if the wedding proceeded despite everything, I'd need to stage a car accident when the convoy passed through a specific stretch of road.

My phone screen lit up.

Prepare Plan B.

Then the middleman sent the location information.

Target is at the pool.

All right, then. Time to get to work.

I took a deep breath, shoved the phone into my pocket, and stepped out of the storage room in my servant's uniform.

The estate sat perched by the sea. The main building was a gray-and-white brick structure that supposedly dated back a hundred years—generations of Clairmonts had lived here. From the outside it looked magnificent, though the interior furnishings hadn't been updated in quite some time. There was a winery on the grounds, but business had been poor these past couple of years. The pool was indoors, located on the first floor.

The two security personnel at the end of the corridor were spectacularly incompetent. One of them glanced up at me, raised a hand in casual greeting, then turned back to his conversation.

No one stopped me.

No wonder the middleman said the Clairmonts were finished—they were coasting on their name and whatever assets remained from better days, reduced to solving their financial problems through marriage. At least Vivian herself had been generous enough to settle the payment upfront. Once I completed this job, I could finally put that money to use.

I crossed through the connecting corridor toward the pool.

Only a few wall sconces remained lit in the pool area, casting dim light across the space. It was empty now except for one person sitting by the water's edge.

Vivian Clairmont.

She wore a white bathrobe, her hair hanging down in wet strands, her body curled in on itself. When she heard my footsteps, she lifted her head to look at me.

"You're here."

I saw her face.

Wait—those eyes...

I saw those eyes in the mirror every single day, and seeing them on someone else's face was indescribably strange. Had the Factory somehow produced backup "assets"? No, they wouldn't go to such elaborate lengths for that kind of research project. Unless...

Was I her "backup"?

Don't be ridiculous. I didn't even know who my parents were or where I came from. Maybe it was easier to chalk it up to fate's coincidence. Or maybe she'd hired me precisely because of this resemblance.

"We look quite alike," she said, tilting her head as she studied me, her tone somewhat surprised. "Lane sent me your photo, but seeing you in person is still rather unexpected."

I was just as surprised.

How could two faces in this world be so similar?

If someone unfamiliar with us saw our photos side by side, they'd probably assume we were sisters—the same brown hair, the same sea-blue eyes, even the shape of our eyebrows nearly identical.

Another me in the world.

Except Vivian Clairmont herself had hired me to "kill" her.

That sounds strange to say. A more accurate term would be "fake her death."

The original plan was simple enough. She'd take that pill, the toxin would temporarily paralyze her nervous system and put her into a death-like state. Afterward, someone would come handle the "body," I'd return to the safe house and lie low for ten days or so before taking the next job. She'd escape her marriage, I'd get paid—everyone gets what they need.

But the message said "Prepare Plan B," which meant it all depended on what she wanted now.

I walked toward her.

"Robert is waiting for me," she said, standing up from the pool's edge and picking up a towel to dry her hair. "I need to leave tonight."

She wasn't going through with the fake death anymore?

"Your parents will notice."

"They'll notice a fake death too." She draped the towel back over the rail and turned to face me. "Do you have another option? Fake death doesn't mean disappearing forever—they'll still look for me. Not to mention this marriage contract is with the Sinclair family."

"So your Plan B is...?"

"You'll need to impersonate me and stay in my room. They won't knock until tomorrow morning, and by then—"

She didn't finish the sentence, but her meaning was clear enough.

Take her place at the wedding.

"That wasn't in the agreement."

This was the so-called "contingent on circumstances." In the past, I would never have accepted a commission with such vague clauses, but Lane had specifically emphasized this job's special nature, and with that exceptionally cost-effective compensation, there was simply no way to refuse.

Vivian took a few steps closer to me. She stood right in front of me now, barely half a step between us.

I felt butterflies fluttering in my stomach.

"Think about it carefully—you were hired by me in the first place. I pay the money, you do the work. Now the job has changed, so you change with it."

What would happen if I refused?

The wedding would fail, the Clairmont family would likely be kicked off the Round Table, but what did that have to do with me? At most I'd just lose the final payment.

"If you take my place, you might actually escape all that broken mess." Her gaze settled on my face as she reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "Lane told me about you—came out of the Factory, right?"

When did Lane tell you that?

I opened my mouth, the words reaching my lips before I had to swallow them back down.

I did come out of the Factory.

Now that I thought about it, that middleman had probably calculated from the start that I'd agree. I would indeed agree for the money's sake, but I hadn't expected him to figure out even why I was saving up.

I wanted to leave that godforsaken place.

Put simply, I was produced by the Factory—a killer with no legitimate identity, able to survive only by depending on the Factory.

Leaving wasn't impossible. One option was to save up enough ransom money, which was obviously a pipe dream—I'd been saving for years and had only managed a fraction of that astronomical sum. At least this job paid well enough to bring me somewhat closer to that impossible number. The other option was to obtain a legitimate identity sanctioned by the Round Table, which was equally difficult.

She reached out, using her thumb to brush against my cheekbone, lifting my chin to examine me—from my eyes to my nose to my lips.

The scrutiny sent chills down my spine. It was too... intimate, like inspecting merchandise.

"Become part of the Sinclair family... would they still be able to drag you back?"

I stared into her eyes.

Sea-blue, just like mine.

All right, this was definitely worth considering.

If I married Sebastian Sinclair, I'd be part of the Sinclair family—legitimate identity, protected wife. No matter how powerful the Factory was, it was merely a tool of the Round Table. They wouldn't risk offending Sebastian Sinclair over one escaped "asset."

I was about to speak, about to ask her what to do about Sebastian, when she withdrew her hand.

"Sebastian has never met me. When they were negotiating the marriage contract, they didn't even call me in. If he wants to see what I look like, he can only look at photos. And who knows who's actually in a photo."

True enough—if he'd never met her in person, there was still room to play the part. I wouldn't be exposed immediately.

"How much time do you need?" I asked.

"Six hours. Best to be gone before dawn."

She patted my shoulder, turned to change into a nightgown, then walked quickly toward the pool exit. I followed behind her.

We crossed through the connecting corridor and re-entered the main building through the side door. The distant revelry continued, the music switching to something even louder. Someone shouted something, followed by a burst of laughter. The bachelor party was still going strong.

When we reached the upstairs hallway, someone was standing in front of Vivian's room.

"Mother?"

The middle-aged woman wore a deep blue robe, her face free of makeup, arms crossed as she looked at us. I'd seen this face before—the files mentioned she was Vivian's mother.

Margaret Clairmont.

"It's getting late," Margaret said. "Tomorrow's wedding is extremely important. You should rest early."

Her gaze paused on my face for a moment.

"New hire?"

"A servant."

I forced myself to answer, grateful that this disguise wasn't security personnel—otherwise there'd be no explaining why I'd be standing with the young mistress at this hour.

Margaret's gaze shifted from me back to Vivian, and she continued, "No matter what happens, the bride must be present."

Vivian said nothing.

What if the bride wasn't present?

I didn't voice the question.

Margaret reached out to touch her wet hair.

"Remember to dry it before sleeping. The stylist will arrive at seven tomorrow morning."

Margaret said nothing more, turned and left, her footsteps gradually fading away.

The hallway fell quiet. I watched her disappear around the corner before Vivian finally pushed open her bedroom door, pulling me inside as well, then locking it behind us.

I couldn't hold back any longer and asked the question: "What happens if the wedding doesn't go smoothly?"

Vivian leaned against the door, closed her eyes, and let out a long breath.

"The Sinclair family isn't a charity. The Round Table will rule that the Clairmonts breached contract. My father's seat will be stripped, and all our assets will be divided up among the other eleven families."

She opened her eyes, raised her hand to make a throat-cutting gesture, her tone utterly calm.

The nature of the mission had changed.

"Then your original plan would never have worked," I said. "Plan A would put you in suspended animation—the wedding would inevitably fail. And Plan C..."

Plan C—the car accident. Nearly impossible to control casualties, might very well kill her along with everyone else. What if someone from the Sinclair family got hurt?

How had I ever agreed to this?

She cut me off.

"I know," her voice dropped lower. "Fake death wouldn't solve the problem. My mother spent half her life becoming a Clairmont. If I actually went through with it, she'd hate me forever. As for Robert and me—we'd probably both end up hunted."

"So you never actually planned to fake your death?"

"We're similar enough, aren't we?"

She walked to the wardrobe, pulled open the doors, and took out a black backpack. She checked through its contents—passport, cash, clothing—then zipped it closed.

"Lane told me you're a Factory 'asset,'" she said, turning to look at me. "Assets don't have identities. But if someone could give you an identity..."

I looked down at my servant's uniform—white shirt, black vest paired with dress pants. Assets truly had no identity. Even these clothes were borrowed.

What if I wore her wedding dress instead?

Living in a luxurious manor, not having to think about which job to take next, how to kill the target—maybe even having a comfortable boat, having that kind of...

Stop it. You don't even know what the man looks like.

Vivian stood before me once more. She placed her hand on my shoulder, gazing at me with those blue eyes.

She said:

"Take my place at this wedding. Once the ceremony is over, you'll be free."