You Chose Her, Remember?

When my dad died, my husband was at the airport—picking up another girl.

She looked like me. Only difference? He actually loved her.

I was just the stand-in.

Three years of marriage? It cost me my dad... and every last shred of self-respect.

But at least I finally saw him for who he was.

I left the country in a soaked dress.

That's when it hit him—what it really meant to lose.

"Emily, I was wrong!"

"Daniel Wilson, it's too late."

Stand-ins don't get love.

They get a new beginning.

I spent three years as Daniel Wilson's stand-in for his first love.

Swallowed every insult. Every lie. My dad died because of him.

And still, it took me walking away in a soaked dress for that cold-hearted Wall Street king to realize...

He'd never loved her.

He'd loved me.

***

Dad died while Daniel was at the airport—picking up another girl.

"Dad..." I dropped to my knees by the bed, vision swimming. His hand was still gripping mine, cold but firm, like he had more to say.

Right then, it hit me—I was done.

One month. That's all I gave myself. Bury my dad. Collect every receipt, every dirty secret. Then I'd be gone.

My phone wouldn't shut up—more calls from the hospital. The $300K surgery drained me. I even sold Dad's favorite vintage car.

But Daniel? "The company's tight on cash. Two days."

Two days. Dad didn't have two days.

I called. Hands shaking. It rang forever before he finally picked up. I could hear the airport in the background.

"What is it? I'm busy."

"My dad's gone." My voice cracked. "Can you come back?"

Silence.

"I'm in London. Business trip. Handle it. I'll wire the money."

"But you're at—"

Click. Call ended.

I stared at the screen. His location from thirty minutes ago? JFK International.

He lied. Why?

A nurse walked in. "Please handle the post-death formalities."

Buzz. A text from Daniel's assistant:

[Mrs. Wilson, Mr. Wilson asked me to inform you there are important guests tonight. Please prepare dinner before eight.]

Important guests.

I looked at Dad's lifeless face. The weight of it all finally dropped.

I went through the motions, numb. Back at the house, I opened the door—and froze.

Laughter. A woman's.

"Daniel, this place is gorgeous—it's just like my villa in Switzerland."

"I modeled it after your style."

His voice—soft. Too soft.

In the living room, she was draped all over him. That profile—way too familiar.

She must've felt me staring, because she turned.

And my stomach dropped.

That face looked so close to mine—just with more flirt and less frost.

"You must be Emily," she said, eyes scanning me. "Tsk. The resemblance is wild."

"Sophie, don't," Daniel muttered. His eyes never left hers.

Sophie.

Sophie Montrose.

Finally had the name. The girl from his secret photo album in the safe—every page, her face.

I was just the stand-in.

"I'll make dinner," I said, eyes low.

"No need." Daniel's voice turned ice. "Sophie hates