You Chose Her, Remember?

Sophie's laugh echoed behind me. "She's really something. Daniel, where'd you dig up this little gem?"

I shut the door to the guest room and yanked a small box from my bag.

My birthday gift to myself—a plain silver ring etched with one word: 'Reborn.'

Emily died today. Tomorrow, someone else shows up in her place.

My phone buzzed. It was the doctor from earlier.

"Ms. Egerton, we've discovered something serious about your father's death. Someone injected him with an unapproved drug right before surgery. That's what caused it to fail. You need to come in—we've called the police."

Unapproved drug?

My hands shook so hard I almost dropped the phone. Fury shot through me like fire. This wasn't just negligence.

They killed him.

The doctor's voice was still playing on a loop in my head when someone knocked.

Four o'clock. Every second dragging me closer to escape.

"Emily, come out." Daniel.

I opened the door. He stood there in some overpriced Tom Ford suit, holding a white box.

"Put this on." He tossed it at me.

Inside was a wedding dress—ivory French lace, glittering with Swarovski crystals. The same one I used to stare at in Kleinfeld's window.

"Why?"

"Don't ask questions." His voice snapped. "Be downstairs in thirty."

I just stood there, heart pounding.

I changed. Looked at myself in the mirror.

Three years ago, I pictured myself walking down the aisle at St. Patrick's in a dress like this. Instead, Daniel dragged me to City Hall for a rushed signature.

Two hours left until showtime.

"What are you standing there for?" Sophie shoved the door open. Her eyes lit up when she saw me. "Tsk. Not bad. Shame, though—it's mine."

"What're you talking about?"

She leaned in, all smug and whispery. "Today's my engagement party with Daniel. You're just here to model the dress. Test the lighting."

A stand-in. Even now.

"Oh, and one more thing," she added, flipping her hair. "Press'll be everywhere. Watch your mouth. Just tell them you're my stylist, cool?"

My fists curled, nails cutting deep into my palms.

Downstairs, the ballroom looked like a Hollywood set. White roses. Chandeliers. Red carpet. All glitz, no soul.

"Get on stage," Daniel barked. "Photographers, start shooting."

Flashbulbs popped as I posed like a lifeless mannequin.

"Smile," the photographer said.

I forced one. It felt worse than crying.

"No, too stiff." Daniel stepped onto the stage. "You don't look like a bride."

He slid an arm around my waist and leaned in, voice low. "Do a good job, or maybe I'll move your dad's grave to Potter's Field."

Direct hit. Potter's Field—where New York buries the forgotten.

I sucked in a breath. Flashed the kind of smile that could blind.

"Much better," he said, satisfied.

For the next hour, I was on display. Smile, pose, hold. They adjusted my stance, the lighting, the angle—like I was just another prop in their perfect shot.

"Alright, looks good." Sophie finally showed up, draped in a custom Oscar de la Renta. "My turn."

I stepped off the stage—almost.

"Wait," Daniel said. "You stay."

"What?"

"You're the bridesmaid."

Bridesmaid. At my husband's engagement party. With a side chick.

"Daniel, don't you think that's a bit much?" Even Sophie hesitated.

He shrugged. "What's the problem? No one here knows who she is."

The doors opened. In came Manhattan's elite—perfect smiles, tailored suits, and glances sharp enough to cut.

The emcee kicked things off, full of scripted praise for the "perfect couple." Polite applause followed.

"And now, let's hear from our beautiful bride-to-be."

Sophie took the mic like she'd practiced this speech a thousand times. "Thank you all for being here to celebrate our happiness.

"Daniel and I were high school sweethearts. We spent some time apart while I studied in Europe, but now—we're finally back together."

Then she looked at me.

"There's someone I need to thank especially."

My heart skipped.

"My dear friend Emily," Sophie said, flashing that smug, knowing smile. "She's taken such good care of Daniel these past three years. I'm truly grateful."

The whispers in the crowd said it all. They got the message loud and clear.

Sophie stepped in front of me. "Now that I'm back, it's time to set her free."

She held out a check. One million dollars.

A million to erase three years of my life—and my father's.

"Take it," she murmured. "It's enough to leave New York. Start over."

I took the check—and tore it straight down the middle. Then again. Let the pieces flutter to the floor.

"Emily!" Daniel snapped.

I grabbed the mic. "Yeah, no thanks," I said, cool as ice. "I don't need a gift. Because Daniel Wilson and I? We're legally married."