I Became My Sister's Substitute Bride

I have been the Donna of the Smith family for nine years—

but only in name.

I took my deceased twin sister Lily’s place, raised her daughter Emma as my own,

and lived beside a husband, David, who never once looked at me with love.

For nine long years, I gave everything.

Emma, however, only saw me as the woman who “killed her mother,”

never knowing it was Lily who stole my marriage, my identity,

and the man who was supposed to be mine.

She pushed me in public, screamed that I was a murderer,

and even used the gun I gifted her to shoot the only thing that brought me comfort—a tiny bird I’d been nursing back to health.

And David…

David, the man I once loved with my whole heart,

couldn’t hide the coldness in his eyes.

Every time he looked at me,

I could feel Lily’s shadow standing between us.

So I made a decision.

If this family wanted Lily so badly—

then they could have her ghost.

I would leave the Smith estate, the title of Donna,

the child who hated me,

and the man who never wanted me.

But the night I packed my bags,

David suddenly appeared in the doorway, blocking my path—

his eyes no longer cold,

but afraid.

As if he had finally realized

what losing me truly meant.

“I promise you, once I resolve all of this, I’ll return to help you manage the transportation point for the goods,” I said on the phone, then hung up.

Staring at the room I had lived in for nine years, I couldn't help but smile bitterly. Nine years of waiting, compromising, and giving. In the end, it was just a false dream.

Lost in memories, I accidentally knocked over a photo frame that had been placed on the shelf. It was a photo of Emma’s biological mother and my husband, David.

Today was the Smith family's usual banquet. Emma, at nine years old, pushed me hard in front of many core members.

I was off guard. Though Emma was very young, she was quite strong. I stumbled and knocked over a bottle of red wine on the table. The red liquid slid from my shoulder into my chest, a chill run through my heart.

She looked at me, embarrassed and disheveled, with a smug smile on her face.

“Why do you break things in this house?”

She didn’t allow the maid to help me up, holding the photo frame up to me:

“It’s your malice that killed my mother. Everything you’re going through is your own doing.”

I was wearing high heels, and the fall had twisted my ankle. I couldn’t get up by myself.

Signora Smith saw my embarrassment and hurried over.

She scolded the maid beside her:

“How can you listen to a child? Ashley is the Donna of this family.”

But she only scolded the innocent maid. With a charitable smile, her tone was as distant as David’s:

“Ashley, you