The Punished Replacement Bride

Caroline Neville dreamed about it again—the day her sister died shielding her from a bullet.

Edith Neville's white dress had been soaked through with blood, her body collapsing into Caroline's arms, light as if it weighed nothing at all.

"Caroline… promise me… you will live," Edith's voice was so frail it barely rose above a whisper. Blood spilled past her pale lips, each word costing her breath. "Keep loving Alexander for me… and for our parents…"

"Don't say that," Caroline clutched her tighter, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe. "You're going to be fine… you have to be fine…"

She hated herself—hated that she had run away after learning Alexander had proposed to Edith. If she hadn't fled in selfish panic, Edith wouldn't have rushed to the docks to find her. She wouldn't have been caught in the crossfire of a mafia shootout.

It was all her fault.

Edith forced a broken smile, her breath growing weaker. "Caroline… I know… you've always… loved him…"

"No! I don't love him!" Caroline's denial came in a desperate cry, as if shouting it could erase her guilt.

But the blood kept flowing, and Caroline's hands trembled uncontrollably. "The ambulance is coming… just hold on… I still want to see you marry Alexander…"

"Caroline… promise me…" Edith tried to lift her hand to touch Caroline's face, but halfway up it fell heavily back down.

The eyes that had once held entire galaxies went dark.

"Edith! I promise! I promise you anything!"

Caroline woke screaming, her chest tightening so violently she thought she might vomit. Sweat soaked her nightclothes. She curled up on the bed, fists locked around the sheets until her knuckles turned white.

The same dream. Again. For five years, it had hunted her night after night.

She rose and crossed to the medicine cabinet. Inside, bottles were lined in perfect order. Since Edith's death, Caroline had lived with severe depression, and hadn't known a single night of real sleep.

She swallowed two antidepressants, then three sleeping pills. The tablets stuck in her throat, their bitterness spreading.

"Dr. Neville?"

Her assistant, Lina, stood at the bedroom door, worry etched across her face. Yesterday Caroline had collapsed in her office, and Lina had insisted on coming to check on her.

"You had the nightmare again?" Lina's voice was gentle.

Caroline nodded, her voice hoarse. "How long did I sleep?"

"About five minutes," Lina lowered her eyes. "Even shorter than yesterday."

Caroline managed a hollow smile. Maybe worsening was a blessing—it meant she could see Edith smiling in dreams, trick herself into believing she was still alive.

"You have to cut back on the sleeping pills. Mixing them like this is dangerous…" Lina tried to reason with her.

"It doesn't matter." Caroline's gaze drifted to the city night beyond the window, her eyes empty. "I should have died a long time ago."

"Don't say that!" Lina's eyes glistened.

Once, Caroline had been Grandhaven's brightest psychologist—confident, kind, full of life. She had brought countless patients back from despair, yet could not save herself.

Now she was nothing but bones, her cheeks sunken, surviving each day on medication just to stay conscious. A shell with the soul scraped out.

That tragedy had stolen Edith's life, and strangled Caroline's spirit.

Lina hesitated. "The news says… Mr. Hamilton is returning tomorrow."

Caroline's grip on the pill bottle tightened, though her voice stayed calm. "He didn't tell me."

The whole world knew the mafia boss Alexander's movements, except his wife.

"Maybe… maybe it was a last-minute decision," Lina offered.

"It doesn't matter." Caroline shook her head. "He won't see me."

After Lina left, Caroline walked to the window. The penthouse was Edith's dream home—she used to say she wanted to watch Grandhaven's skyline here with Alexander.

So Caroline had spent every cent she had to buy it. As a wedding home.

Tears slid down her cheeks without a sound.

"Edith… can you see? I finally moved into the place you wanted. I just couldn't win Alexander's heart to share it with me. I miss you so much."

The next morning, Caroline went to the market. She bought fresh white truffles, blood oranges, rosemary—all Alexander's favorites.

She knew he wouldn't come to eat, but she cooked anyway.

Cooking had been Edith's joy. She loved experimenting with recipes, giving Caroline the first taste. If Caroline said it was good, she'd make an extra portion for Alexander.

Over time, Caroline memorized every flavor Alexander liked.

She baked rosemary focaccia, tossed a blood orange and olive oil salad, set the table with care, then sat down to wait.

She dozed off at the table.

The sound of the door opening woke her.

Alexander stood in the doorway, tall enough to brush the frame. His dark gray coat hung open, his shirt collar undone to reveal the falcon tattoo at his collarbone. He smelled of alcohol, his brown hair disheveled, his eyes tired and hollow.

Caroline silently stepped into the kitchen and returned with a bowl of warm sobering soup.

She placed it on the coffee table in front of him.

Alexander turned his head. His gaze met hers—and hate flooded his eyes.

He swept his arm, knocking the bowl to the floor. Hot broth splashed across Caroline's arm, raising blisters instantly.

"Save it, Caroline. Your performance makes me sick." His voice was ice and venom. "Why was it you who survived? Why not her?"

Caroline bit her lip. She didn't cry; didn't scream. She fetched a cloth, knelt, and began cleaning the shards.

A shard sliced her finger. Blood welled up.

She sucked in a breath.

Alexander seized her wrist, squeezing hard enough to crush bone. He yanked her up and shoved her to the floor.

"That little cut hurts? Edith bled for you! Do you remember how much blood she lost?"

Caroline lowered her eyes, her chest aching so badly she could barely breathe. No one understood her despair better than she did. Every day she wished it had been her.

Alexander tore at her clothes, his voice shaking with fury. "Why could you take everything from her? Her home, her dreams, her man?"

"I didn't…" Caroline's denial was barely a whisper.

"You did!" Alexander's roar was raw. "You ran away that day knowing she'd come for you! You planned it so she'd die for you, didn't you?"

"No… no…" Tears spilled down her cheeks.

He didn't hear her. Or didn't care.

He took her roughly, without an ounce of tenderness.

Pain spread through her body, but it was nothing compared to the agony inside.

Caroline closed her eyes and let him use her, thinking, Edith… I'm sorry. I couldn't take care of Alexander, and now I've made him angry again. It's my fault. I'm unforgivable.

When it was over, Alexander dressed without looking at her.

"If your face didn't look like hers, I'd feel dirty touching you."

He left, the door slamming shut.

Caroline lay curled on the cold floor, trembling. The illness was a black hand squeezing her heart tighter and tighter.

Her breathing grew shallow, her vision beginning to fade. The thought of ending it returned.

She had tried before—slitting her wrists—but had been found and taken to the hospital.

"You poisonous bitch! You don't get to die! You'll live and pay, and I'll make sure you suffer."

Alexander's words echoed in her skull.

He was right. She had committed an unforgivable sin. She didn't even deserve to meet Edith in hell.

So Caroline stopped trying to die. No matter how broken she became, she would keep living—because Edith had asked her to.

But she didn't know how much longer she could.