The Wrong One Loved Me Twice as Hard

The match was over.

The numbers still glowed on the scoreboard. The crowd's screams hadn't faded.

Adelaide Seymour stood on the podium, trophy raised high, but there was barely any joy on her face.

Front row center. That seat was still empty.

Her fiancé Frederick Talbot had promised he'd come watch. He never showed.

The disappointment lodged like a needle in her chest—a sharp sting every time she breathed.

She opened her phone. The first thing she saw was a push notification from Melissa Talbot's Instagram.

A hospital corridor. Melissa holding up a coffee cup. Frederick's arm draped around her shoulders, his expression pure adoration.

Then Frederick's messages finally came through.

[Melissa had an allergic reaction. Had to rush her to the ER.]

[Watched the livestream though. That lift you did was insane.]

[Head back to the apartment. I'll come find you later.]

The rest was congratulations from friends and junk mail.

Melissa had posted a nine-photo grid—the hospital hallway, coffee, the sleeve of a gray hoodie, the ER room number, a selfie taken before her face swelled up. The caption read: [I'll always be your most important person.]

Adelaide flipped her phone face-down on her knee. Her chest felt tight. Breathing was hard.

Greta Sauders walked over. "Frederick didn't come?"

"No. Something came up at home."

Greta glanced at her, didn't push it. But Adelaide caught the look she exchanged with vice-captain Daphne Wallace.

It was subtle—well-meaning sympathy. But it only made Adelaide feel worse.

Everyone knew Melissa was Frederick's stepsister. That she looked a little like Adelaide. That she was his first love. After Melissa's mother Thora White died, there was no one left to keep them apart—except Adelaide, standing in the middle.

Adelaide was 'the unloved third wheel.'

Those weren't her words. One of Frederick's football buddies had said it, drunk, right in front of everyone.

She hadn't cried then. Maybe she'd seen it coming. Or maybe she'd cried so much alone that there was nothing left.

Adelaide unclipped her phone charm.

Last year on her birthday, Melissa had period cramps. Frederick gave Melissa the birthday gift he'd bought for Adelaide to cheer her up. All Adelaide got was this phone charm.

Back then she hadn't minded. It's the thought that counts, she'd told herself. But now she saw it clearly—just some cheap trinket he'd grabbed without thinking.

A careless gift from a careless man. Keeping it only hurt.

Adelaide returned to the apartment. The living room light was on. No one was home.

On the couch, a men's hoodie she'd personally picked out was tangled with women's lingerie. Intimate and chaotic.

Clear evidence of how urgent things had been between the two occupants.

She stood in the entryway staring at the pile of clothing. Frozen for a moment.

Then she walked into the bedroom and opened the closet.

Frederick's clothes and hers were jumbled together in a mess. Only on the far right hung a single item—a woman's bodycon dress.

Not hers.

She closed the closet door. Opened it again.

Closed it.

Opened it.

The third time, she packed her own clothes into a suitcase, set it by the front door, then neatly hung up the remaining clothes.

Frederick came home at eleven.

Adelaide sat on the couch, laptop open on her legs, the competition replay on screen.

He walked in carrying the dampness of rain, hair half-dry, smelling of disinfectant mixed with strawberry coffee.

"Still up?" He glanced at her. Casual.

"Waiting for you."

"Didn't I say to go to bed first?" He sat down beside her. "Melissa really scared me today. Her face and body swelled up. The doctor said if we'd gotten there any later, she could've had trouble breathing."

His eyes landed on the neatly folded lingerie nearby. He frowned.

"That's Melissa's. The fabric was too tight after the swelling, so she took it off." He stood quickly. "I'll put it away right now."

"Frederick." Adelaide pushed the lingerie aside.

"Hm?"

"You didn't come to my match today."

His hand stilled. "I told you, Melissa—"

"I know. Allergic reaction." She paused. "But you didn't come."

He turned to face her. His expression shifted from guilt to irritation—that look he always got when she brought up Melissa.

"Adelaide, you won the championship today. I'm happy for you. Genuinely happy."

"But Melissa was alone at the hospital. Her mom's gone. I'm the only person she has in this city. She's my sister. I can't just abandon her."

"You're my fiancée. You have everything—a title, friends, family. Can't you just be understanding?"

There it was again.

Understanding.

Always that word.

Because Melissa had nothing, Adelaide had to understand.

Because Adelaide had everything, she wasn't allowed to mind.

Because Adelaide was strong, she was supposed to pity Melissa.

When Adelaide raised that trophy on the podium, his seat was empty.

When the whole school whispered that she was just a stand-in, he never defended her.

While her clothes were shoved into the closet like garbage, he was out buying Melissa strawberry coffee.

"You're right." Adelaide closed her laptop. No emotion in her voice. "I have everything."

"I'm glad you see it that way." Frederick exhaled with relief, walked over, and kissed her forehead. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow I'll take you to dinner. Celebrate your win."

He disappeared into the bathroom.

When the water started running, Adelaide wheeled her suitcase out the door.

She gave the driver an address and sat in the back of the cab, watching the rain intensify against the window.

The address had arrived in a message three months ago. Just one line and a house number.

Sender: Reginald Seymour.

The only time Adelaide had ever spoken to Reginald was at her grandfather Marshall Seymour's funeral.

He'd stood before the headstone dressed in black, deep-set eyes with irises so pale they looked like early morning light filtering through clouds.

He'd said to her: "If you ever need anything, come find me."

She'd assumed it was just something people say.

Reginald was Marshall's adopted son—technically her uncle by family hierarchy.

But they were only six years apart. He'd spent too many years in special forces. They rarely saw each other.

So she'd never taken those words seriously.

But tonight, she wanted to test them.

The cab stopped in front of an old villa. Heavy cigarette smoke drifted from inside.

She rang the doorbell.

Reginald appeared in a black shirt, unbuttoned, exposing his collarbones and the edge of a dark scar across them.

A cigarette hung between his fingers. Smoke clung to him.

He saw Adelaide and opened the door wider, gesturing her inside.

But when she frowned at the smoke, he stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray without a word, then went to the kitchen and poured her a glass of water.

He leaned against the window frame, glass in hand. "Talk. What happened?"

Adelaide opened her mouth but couldn't find the words.

Because she suddenly realized she had no real reason to be here.

He was her uncle. She was his niece in name only. They'd barely exchanged a handful of sentences in their lives. Showing up at his door in the middle of the night—what was she even doing?

Rain suddenly hammered against the windows. Adelaide's phone lit up. A message from Frederick.

[Where'd you go? Melissa got caught in the rain. Where are the new towels?]

Her hand tightened around the phone. She didn't reply.

Reginald glanced at her screen. Then he did something she didn't expect—he reached over, slid the phone from her grip, powered it off, and tossed it onto the couch.

"Don't go back tonight."