Chapter 2

Aurelio's was the kind of restaurant where senators proposed and trust-fund kids pretended to understand wine.

Dominic was already seated when I arrived. His eyes swept over me, and for a split second, something flickered—confusion, maybe. He'd expected the red dress.

"You look… different," he said carefully.

"Good different or bad different?"

He smiled. "You always look good, Bella."

Smooth. Practiced. Had he always sounded this rehearsed, or was I only hearing it now because I'd watched him kiss another woman over my coffin?

I sat down, ordered a martini—dry, two olives—and studied him the way I'd never bothered to before.

Dominic Crane. Thirty-one. Handsome in that old-money way—strong jaw, soft eyes, the kind of face that made women forgive things they shouldn't. He ran his family's hedge fund, wore Patek Philippe, and had proposed to me on a rooftop in Santorini with a seven-carat ring.

Everyone said we were the perfect couple.

But perfect couples don't let their wives die while holding someone else's hand.

"How's work?" I asked, swirling my glass.

"Busy. The Meridian deal is closing next week." He reached across the table and took my hand. "But let's not talk about work. I want to talk about us."

My pulse quickened—not from affection, but from alertness.

"What about us?"

"I've been thinking… we should host more dinners. Expand our circle. You've been so focused on Leo lately—which I love—but I miss showing you off." He squeezed my hand. "Also, Katrina called me today."

There it was.

I kept my expression neutral. "Oh?"

"She sounded terrible. Said Marcus cleaned out their accounts and left her with nothing. She asked if we could help." He paused. "I told her I'd talk to you."

In my past life, this was the moment I'd said, Of course, bring her here. I'd even prepared the guest room myself—fresh flowers, new towels, her favorite lavender candles.

I'd built my own coffin with scented candles and thread-count sheets.

"That's so sad," I said softly. "But Dominic, I don't think it's appropriate for her to stay with us. We have Leo to think about. A strange energy in the house isn't good for him."

His eyebrows rose slightly. "Strange energy? It's Katrina. She's your best friend. She was your maid of honor."

"And I love her. That's why I already offered to pay for a hotel."

Something shifted in his expression—subtle, almost imperceptible. Annoyance? No. Calculation.

"A hotel feels cold. She's practically family."

"She's not family. She's a friend going through a divorce, and the best thing we can do is give her space to heal—not enmesh her in our household."

He pulled his hand back. Picked up his wine glass.

"You've never said no to her before."

"Maybe I should have."

The silence that followed was louder than anything he could have said.

I excused myself to the restroom. Inside, I gripped the marble counter and stared at my reflection.

Was Dominic part of it?

In my memories, Katrina's system required her to "synchronize" with me—appearance, mannerisms, social position. But it also needed the people around me to accept the replacement. That meant Dominic had to either be deceived… or complicit.

The way he pushed for Katrina to move in—was that a loving husband being generous, or something else entirely?

I needed more information. And I knew exactly where to get it.

I pulled out my phone and called my attorney.

"Richard, it's Bella Crane. I need you to do something for me—quietly. Pull Dominic's phone records, credit card statements, and any private accounts for the last twelve months. I also need a background check on Katrina Shaw. Everything. And Richard?"

"Yes, Mrs. Crane?"

"No one finds out about this. Especially not my husband."

When I returned to the table, Dominic was texting. He put his phone away quickly—too quickly.

"Everything okay?" I asked sweetly.

"Just work." He smiled. "So, about Katrina—"

"I said no, Dominic."

His jaw tightened. For the first time in our marriage, I saw something raw flash across his face.

Not love.

Irritation.

He recovered instantly, nodding, reaching for my hand again.

"Of course. You're right. We'll figure out another way to help her."

I smiled and let him hold my hand.

But under the table, my other hand was clenched into a fist so tight my nails drew blood.

You don't get to replace me. Not this time.

After dinner, Dominic drove us home. The silence in the car was thick, charged. He turned on the radio—some jazz station—and hummed along like nothing had happened.

When we pulled into the driveway, I saw it.

A silver sedan parked outside our gate.

Katrina was sitting on the hood, mascara streaked down her face, a suitcase at her feet.

She spotted our headlights and stood up, waving frantically, her whole body trembling with perfectly performed desperation.

Dominic turned to me, eyebrows raised, as if to say: Now what?

I looked at Katrina through the windshield.

She looked at me.

And behind those tear-filled eyes, just for a fraction of a second—I saw it.

A smile.