My Husband Cloned Me to Replace His First Love

The ink on the page was still wet, a glossy black river sealing my fate. I didn’t look at the lawyers shuffling their papers, nor did I look at my father, who was currently wiping a bead of sweat from his receding hairline with a trembling handkerchief. He wouldn't meet my eyes. He hadn't for weeks.

Instead, I stared at the man in the wheelchair across the mahogany expanse.

Hunter Gibson. The name alone was enough to freeze conversation in any ballroom in Manhattan. Up close, he was less a man and more a tectonic plate—silent, imposing, and radiating a pressure that made my ears pop. He hadn't spoken a word since I entered the library of his Hamptons estate. He just watched me, his dark eyes tracking my movements with the predatory focus of a hawk circling a field mouse.

I smoothed the skirt of my white dress. It wasn't designer. I’d bought it off a rack in SoHo specifically for this moment, a petty rebellion against the couture gown my father had tried to force on me. If I was going to be sold, I wouldn't be gift-wrapped.

"It is done," the lead attorney announced, snapping his briefcase shut. The sound was like a gunshot in the cavernous room.

"Leave," Hunter said. His voice was a low rumble, vibrating through the heavy oak table. "All of you."

The exodus was immediate. My father practically ran, muttering a suffocated "Goodbye, Kennedy" that didn't even reach the door. And then, the silence returned, heavier than before.

Hunter rolled his chair forward, the motor's hum the only sound in the room. He stopped inches from me. I could smell him now—sandalwood, expensive scotch, and something colder, like rain on pavement.

"So," he said, his lip curling into a sneer that marred his devastatingly sharp features. "The Reynolds' wild child. I expected more... noise."

"I save the noise for people who matter," I replied, keeping my voice steady despite the hammering of my heart against my ribs.

His fingers drummed a frantic, rhythmic beat on his armrest. *Tap-tap-tap.* "Don't mistake this arrangement for a marriage, Kennedy. You are here to settle a ledger. Your room is in the East Wing. Stay out of my sight, and we won't have a problem."

"A pleasure," I said, standing up. "I prefer my own company anyway."

"Good," he countered, his gaze dropping to my hands, which were clenched white at my sides. "Because a spoiled party girl like you wouldn't last five minutes in my reality."

He spun the chair around and vanished into the shadows of the hallway, leaving me alone in a house that felt less like a home and more like a mausoleum.

***

The East Wing was beautiful in the way a museum is beautiful—cold, sterile, and terrified of human touch. The walls were a gallery white, the furniture sharp-edged and modern. I felt like an ink stain on a pristine canvas.

I spent the first hour pacing, mapping the perimeter