Elodie's POV
I lose the black car somewhere around Fifth Avenue.
Or maybe it stops following me. Either way, my hands won't stop shaking.
By the time I pull up to Thornwick's building—my building now, I guess—it's almost midnight.
The doorman looks at me with confusion. "Can I help you?"
"I'm Elodie Vale. Thornwick's—" The word sticks in my throat. "His wife."
His eyebrows shoot up. Not with excitement. With surprise. Like he's trying to figure out what happened to the beautiful blonde woman he was expecting.
"Of course, Mrs. Vale. Welcome. Mr. Vale asked me to give you this." He hands me a key card. "Penthouse level. The elevator requires the card for access."
I take it with numb fingers and head inside.
The elevator ride up feels like walking to my execution.
The doors open directly into the penthouse.
And I step into a shrine.
White orchids everywhere—Calista's favorites. Their sickly sweet smell fills the air, making my stomach turn.
Enormous windows overlook the city, but all I can see is the portrait above the fireplace.
Calista.
She's stunning in the painting. Hair perfect, smile confident, eyes sparkling with the certainty of someone who's never been told no. She's wearing the blue dress she wore to last year's charity gala—the one where she and Thornwick announced their engagement to thunderous applause.
I stood in the back of that ballroom. No one noticed I was there.
"You're here."
I jump. Thornwick's standing in a doorway, still in his suit from the wedding that wasn't really a wedding.
"The doorman said—"
"The guest room is prepared," he interrupts. "Down that hall, second door on the right. You'll have your own bathroom. There's a lock on the door if you need privacy."
If I need privacy. Like I'm a stranger he's letting crash on his couch.
"I maintain late hours," he continues, voice completely flat. "I'm often at the office until midnight. On weekends I go to the hospital to see Calista. You can do whatever you want, just don't touch anything in the master bedroom or her study."
"Her study?"
"Calista was planning to redecorate after the wedding. All her ideas are still in there." For the first time, emotion cracks through his cold exterior. Pain. Raw and real. "I'm keeping everything exactly as she left it."
For when she wakes up, I hear the unspoken words.
He's preserved this entire place like a museum. Waiting for her to come back and claim her life.
The life I'm borrowing. Temporarily.
"Any questions?" he asks.
I have about a million. Like who's trying to kill me. Like why someone's sending me warning texts. Like how I'm supposed to live in a house haunted by my sister's ghost.
"No," I say instead.
"Good. I'll be in my study. Try not to make noise." He turns to leave.
"Wait."
He stops but doesn't turn around.
"Where will you sleep?"
"My bedroom. Alone." The emphasis on the last word is clear. "This is a business arrangement, Elodie. Don't confuse it for anything else."
He disappears down a hallway, leaving me standing in the middle of all this white and glass and Calista.
I walk slowly around the space. Every surface screams my sister's name.
Fashion magazines with her on the cover, casually stacked on the coffee table. Her favorite brand of tea in the kitchen. Her handwriting on the calendar—appointments I'll never keep, plans she'll never fulfill.
I find the guest room. It's nice. Impersonal. Like a hotel.
The bed is made with crisp white sheets that smell like nothing. There's a vase of flowers on the nightstand—not white orchids, thank God. Just generic roses.
Someone—probably Thornwick's housekeeper—put my small suitcase on the luggage rack. All my worldly possessions fit in one bag.
I sit on the edge of the bed and finally let myself feel it.
I just married a man who's in love with my sister.
I'm living in her space, surrounded by her things, wearing her life like a coat that doesn't fit.
And someone out there wants me dead.
My phone buzzes. I grab it, hoping for another message from my mysterious protector.
Instead, it's Senna: "Are you okay?"
I stare at the text. When's the last time anyone in my family asked me that?
"Fine," I type back. "Just tired."
"I'm sorry about all of this. I know Father didn't give you a choice."
I almost laugh. Almost.
"Neither did you," I type. Then delete it. No point starting a fight.
"Get some rest," Senna sends. "Call me if you need anything."
I toss the phone on the nightstand and stand up.
Walk back out to the living room. Stare at that portrait of Calista again.
She's so beautiful. So perfect. So everything I'm not and never will be.
And I've spent twenty-six years living in her shadow. Watching her get everything—the attention, the praise, the love, the CEO fiancé with the perfect smile.
Now I'm supposed to live in her actual shadow? In her home? Surrounded by her things? Waiting in her guest room until she wakes up and takes her life back?
Something inside me cracks.
No.
Not breaks. Cracks. And through that crack, something hot and fierce pushes through.
No more.
I'm done being invisible. Done being second choice. Done being the replacement nobody wants.
Before I can think about it, I'm walking to the fireplace. Reaching up. Taking down the portrait.
It's heavy. Awkward. I almost drop it twice.
"What are you doing?"
Thornwick's voice makes me jump, but I don't put it down.
He's standing in the doorway of his study, eyes wide with shock.
"I'm taking this down," I say. My voice doesn't shake. Doesn't apologize.
"That's Calista's portrait."
"I know who it is." I lean it against the wall, facing away. "And I'm not living in a shrine to my sister."
"You have no right—" He's striding toward me now, fury in every line of his body.
"I have every right." I turn to face him fully. "I'm your wife. This is my home now. And I'm not going to spend however long this arrangement lasts staring at her perfect face and feeling like a placeholder."
"You are a placeholder," he spits out. "When Calista wakes up—"
"If she wakes up." The words are cruel but true. "The doctors said they don't know. Could be weeks. Could be never. Are you planning to live in this museum forever?"
His hand clenches into a fist. "This isn't your decision to make."
"Yes, it is." I'm shaking now, but not with fear. With something else. Something powerful. "I'm Mrs. Vale whether you like it or not. And I'm not spending one more second being invisible in my own life."
I point at the portrait. "That goes in storage. The orchids too—I hate orchids. Her perfume, her tea, all of it. I'm moving into the master bedroom."
"Absolutely not—"
"This is non-negotiable." My voice is steel. "You want to keep this marriage quiet? Want to maintain the illusion? Then you treat me with basic human respect. That starts with me having my own space. Real space. Not a guest room where I hide until my replacement period is over."
Thornwick stares at me like he's seeing me for the first time.
Good. Let him see me.
"You're making this very public very fast if you fight me on this," I continue. My heart is pounding but I don't back down. "How would it look if people found out the new Mrs. Vale is sleeping in the guest room? That her husband can't stand to have her in his space? Scandal like that would tank the merger before it even begins."
It's a bluff. A desperate one.
But I don't care anymore.
I'm done being quiet. Done being small. Done apologizing for existing.
"The guest room or the master bedroom, Thornwick. Choose. But know that if you force me into that guest room, I'm walking out of here and telling the first reporter I see exactly what this marriage really is."
Silence stretches between us. His jaw is so tight I can see the muscle jumping.
Finally, he says, "Fine. Take the master bedroom. But don't touch Calista's study. And don't expect anything from me beyond what's in the contract."
"I don't expect anything from you," I say honestly. "I stopped expecting things from people a long time ago."
Something flickers in his eyes. Not sympathy. But maybe... recognition?
He turns away. "I have work to do."
After he's gone, I stand there shaking.
What did I just do?
I threatened my husband of six hours. Demanded he give me space in his own home. Took down a portrait of the woman he loves.
The old Elodie—the invisible one—would never have done that.
But the old Elodie got me nowhere.
My phone buzzes. Another text from the unknown number.
"Brave move with the portrait. But you should know—the master bedroom has a balcony. Calista fell from a balcony the night before her accident. It was ruled an accident. It wasn't. Be careful where you sleep, Mrs. Vale. The danger is already inside the house."
My blood turns to ice.
I look down the hallway toward the master bedroom.
Toward the balcony where my sister nearly died once before.
Someone tried to kill Calista. Tried to stage it as an accident.
And now I'm about to sleep in the same room.
In the same bed.
With the same balcony access.
I pull up the text again, hands shaking.
"Who are you?" I type. "Tell me who's trying to kill me."
The response comes immediately:
"Someone you trust. Someone close. Watch Senna. Watch Thornwick. Watch everyone. And whatever you do—lock that balcony door tonight. I can't protect you if you make it easy for them."
I look toward Thornwick's study, where he's locked himself away.
Then down the hall toward the master bedroom I just demanded.
Someone in this penthouse might want me dead.
And I just insisted on sleeping in the most dangerous room in the house.