Chapter 3

Deena didn't ask questions that night. She handed me a blanket, a glass of whiskey, and pointed to the couch. "Talk when you're ready."

I didn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Scarlett's face—my face—smirking at me from Colton's penthouse, wearing my ring, holding his baby.

By 7 AM, I'd showered, borrowed Deena's clothes, and told her everything.

She listened without interrupting, her expression shifting from shock to fury to something cold and calculating.

"That prenup," she said finally. "Do you have a copy?"

"Colton keeps all the legal documents."

"Of course he does." She pulled out her laptop. "My cousin's a family attorney. Vicious. The kind of lawyer who makes billionaires cry. Let me make a call."

While Deena worked the phone, I left for the Bluebird Café.

The morning was cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones. I arrived fifteen minutes early, chose a corner table facing the door, and waited.

At exactly 9 AM, a woman walked in—mid-forties, sharp blazer, no makeup, the kind of presence that made the room rearrange itself around her.

She sat across from me and placed a thick manila envelope on the table.

"Sienna Robinson?"

I nodded.

"My name is Harper Quinn. I'm a forensic accountant." She slid the envelope toward me. "And I've been investigating your husband for two years."

I opened the envelope. Inside were bank statements, shell company registrations, property records—dozens of transactions, all tracing back to Colton's real estate empire.

"The Moretti project isn't a real estate development," Harper said flatly. "It's a money laundering operation. Your husband has been funneling cash through offshore accounts for a syndicate based out of Eastern Europe. And your signature is on half these documents."

My mouth went dry. "He told me they were permit applications. Routine filings."

"I know. That's his pattern." Harper leaned forward. "You're not the first wife, Sienna."

The café noise faded to white static.

"What?"

"Before you, there was a woman named Claire Ashton. Married Colton in 2016. She discovered the fraud, tried to leave. He had her committed to a psychiatric facility using a fabricated evaluation—same doctor, same diagnosis. She's still there."

The psychological evaluation in Colton's "Insurance" folder. Dr. Eleanor Voss. The same playbook.

"Claire's family hired me to investigate," Harper continued. "It took two years to connect the dots. When I saw the prenup structure he used with you—identical to Claire's—I knew he'd do it again."

"You sent the anonymous text."

"I needed you to see the files before he deleted them. He always deletes them once the wife is neutralized." She paused. "Sienna, you have a very small window. Once Colton realizes you're not coming back, he'll activate the contingency—the forged emails, the fake evaluation, the video. He'll have you declared incompetent within seventy-two hours."

"How do I stop him?"

Harper studied me for a long moment. "The documents you signed for the Moretti project—if we can prove they were signed under false pretenses, it flips. He becomes the fraud, not you. But I need the originals. And they're in his office safe."

"His home office? In our house?"

"Yes."

The house I'd been told not to return to. The house where my twin sister was now playing wife.

"There's something else." Harper's voice dropped. "Your sister, Scarlett—she's not just his mistress. She's on his payroll. She's been receiving monthly wire transfers from one of his shell companies since before your wedding."

The room tilted. Since before my wedding.

"He recruited her," I whispered.

"He needed someone you'd never suspect. Someone with your face, your mannerisms, your DNA. Someone who could replace you seamlessly if needed."

Replace me.

The word hit like a bullet. I thought of every time Colton had encouraged me to "reconnect" with Scarlett, every dinner he'd arranged, every holiday he'd insisted she join. He wasn't being generous. He was installing a backup.

My phone—Deena's spare—buzzed. A text from a number I recognized: Colton's assistant, Marcus.

"Mrs. Blackwell, Mr. Blackwell has filed a missing persons report. Police may contact you. He's very worried."

Harper read the text over my shoulder and shook her head. "It's starting. He's building the narrative—concerned husband, unstable wife who disappeared in the night."

"How long do I have?"

"Forty-eight hours. Maybe less." She stood, leaving the envelope. "Get those documents, Sienna. It's the only way out that doesn't end with you in a padded room next to Claire Ashton."

I sat alone in the café for a long time after she left, staring at the stack of evidence that proved my entire marriage was an operation.

Then I picked up the phone and called Deena.

"I need to get back into my house. Tonight."

Silence. Then: "I'm coming with you."

That evening, I sat in Deena's car across the street from the home I'd shared with Colton for three years. The lights were on in the master bedroom. Through the curtains, I could see two silhouettes—one unmistakably Colton's broad frame, and the other, a mirror image of myself.

Scarlett was in my bed. In my house. Living my life.

My phone lit up. A social media notification: Scarlett had posted a photo on Colton's family account—her hand on his chest, the wedding ring catching the light, captioned: "Quiet nights with my forever. ❤️"

She was already erasing me.