Chapter 3

I held the phone in my trembling hands, staring at the black screen.

Every rational part of me screamed to put it back. Maybe it was an old device. Maybe it was for work—a secure line for confidential business calls. Rylan ran a tech empire. It wasn't unreasonable.

But my gut told me otherwise.

I pressed the power button. The screen lit up. No passcode.

That alone made my stomach drop. Rylan—the real Rylan—was obsessive about digital security. He used 18-character passwords, biometric locks, encrypted everything. He once lectured me for twenty minutes about using "password123" on my laptop.

This phone was wide open.

There were only three apps installed: a messaging app I didn't recognize, a camera, and a voice recorder.

I opened the messages first.

One contact. No name—just initials: R.A.

My husband's initials.

The most recent exchange was from this morning, sent while I was still asleep.

R.A.: How much longer?

Reply: As long as it takes.

R.A.: This wasn't the deal. You said two weeks.

Reply: Plans changed. She's not suspicious. Relax.

R.A.: She's my WIFE.

Reply: And she's never been happier. You should thank me.

My blood ran cold.

I scrolled up. Dozens of messages, spanning back to—I checked the date—our wedding day.

R.A.: One night. That's it. I need you to stand in at the reception for thirty minutes while I handle the Moretti situation. Then you disappear.

Reply: Fine.

R.A.: Do NOT touch her.

Reply: Wouldn't dream of it, brother.

Brother.

The word detonated in my chest like a grenade.

I kept scrolling, my vision blurring.

R.A. (wedding night, 11:47 PM): Where are you? The situation is handled. Come switch back.

Reply: Change of plans.

R.A.: What the hell does that mean?

Reply: It means your wife is lying next to me, and I'm not leaving.

R.A.: Kieran. KIERAN. Answer me.

No reply for six hours.

R.A.: If you touch her, I will end you.

Reply (next morning): Too late.

I dropped the phone.

My hands were shaking so violently that I had to press them flat against the dresser to steady myself. The room tilted. My reflection in the mirror above the dresser stared back at me—pale, wide-eyed, the face of a woman whose entire world had just cracked down the middle.

Every kiss. Every whisper. Every night he made me feel worshipped, desired, alive—

It wasn't Rylan.

It was never Rylan.

A man I'd never met had been sleeping in my bed, learning my body, memorizing my sounds, pretending to be my husband for three months.

And I hadn't known. Not once. Not even close.

The shame hit first—scalding, suffocating. How could I not tell the difference? How could I let a stranger touch me, enter me, and mistake it for love?

Then the rage.

I heard the front door open downstairs. His footsteps—confident, unhurried—crossed the foyer.

"Babe? I brought dinner."

His voice. Rylan's voice. Kieran's voice. The same voice—I couldn't tell the difference, and that fact alone made me want to scream.

I shoved the phone into my pocket and looked at myself in the mirror.

My mascara was smudged. My eyes were red. I was shaking from head to toe.

Breathe.

I forced my expression into something neutral. Practiced a smile. It looked grotesque, but it would have to do.

Because I wasn't going to confront him—not yet.

If this man had fooled me for three months, he was dangerous. Calculated. Patient. A man like that wouldn't crumble under accusations. He'd deflect, manipulate, twist my own words against me.

No. I needed to be smarter than him.

I needed to find the real Rylan.

I walked downstairs, and the impostor smiled at me from the kitchen, holding up a bag of takeout.

"Thai okay?"

I smiled back.

"Perfect."