The man I buried came back to me holding a glass of warm milk.
His face was calm, almost tender, like nothing had ever happened.
“Hey,” he said softly, crouching beside me. “Why are you on the floor again? Crying? Missing my brother that much?”
Half a month had passed since Toby Mercer’s death—since I’d watched flames consume his name, his future, our unborn child’s father. Half a month since I became the widow of a man who never lived long enough to see me in white.
Or so I thought.
Now, standing before me, was Leon Mercer, Toby’s twin. Or the man who wanted me to think he was.
I hid my shaking hands behind my back and forced a smile.
“I’m fine,” I whispered. “Just… dizzy.”
He exhaled, gentle, relieved. “Still stubborn, I see. Guess the baby takes after you. Wait till he’s born—Uncle Leon will have his hands full.”
Uncle.
The word slashed through me like a razor.
He nudged the glass toward me.
“Drink. You need to rest. Toby wouldn’t want to see you like this… wherever he is.”
Wherever he is.
My throat burned. Because I already knew exactly where he was—and whose bed he’d been in.
---
Two weeks earlier, I had watched them lower a coffin into the earth. The wind off Velbrunnia Bay carried the scent of salt and ash, and someone behind me whispered that the explosion had left no survivors. They’d found only fragments of Toby: a scorched cufflink, a melted phone, the kind of things grief clings to when there’s no body to hold.
I became a widow before I could become a bride.
And inside me, his child grew—a heartbeat that didn’t know its father had already vanished.
Days blurred into one another. The world became gray and soundless. People told me to stay strong, to live for the baby. But how do you keep breathing when the man who promised forever dies before you can even say “I do”?
Then he appeared at the funeral—alive.
They said he was Leon Mercer, Toby’s estranged brother. Missing for years, presumed dead. He came dressed in black, solemn beside his wife Marcelline, the woman everyone pitied for her failing health. The resemblance was uncanny. The same voice. The same hands. The same eyes that used to look at me like I was the only thing that mattered.
For a fleeting second, I thought I was losing my mind.
Until I overheard the conversation in my mother-in-law’s study.
---
“You faked your death, Toby,” she hissed. “Aria’s carrying your child. You let her think you died so you could run back to that woman who left you five years ago?”
My pulse stilled.
Then came the voice that still owned every corner of my heart.
“Marcelline’s dying, Mother. She doesn’t have long. She wanted one thing—to be my wife before she goes. I couldn’t say no. Once she’s gone, everything will return to normal. Aria will give birth, and we’ll be a family again.”
My knees nearly gave out.
He wasn’t dead. He chose to vanish—for her.
The man I mourned, the man whose name I whispered to my unborn child every night, had lied.
---
I went back to my room and called the only person who could help me disappear.
My brother, Gareth.
He worked in a division no one ever talked about—the kind that erased people quietly.
Me: Gareth, I need your help. I want to vanish. I want to give Toby what he gave me.
Me: But not yet. Let him think he’s safe. One week.
When he called back, his voice was clipped. “Aria, what’s happening? I thought Toby was dead.”
“He’s alive,” I said, shaking. “Pretending to be Leon. He married Marcelline. He’s here. Watching me mourn him every night.”
A pause. Then, cold and sure: “One week. No traces. No mistakes.”
I didn’t have to explain further. He understood.
---
Now, that same liar stood inches from me, his breath calm, his hands steady.
I studied every detail—the faint scar on his jaw, the eyes that once promised eternity.
Six days from now, he’d be standing over my coffin.
Let’s see how convincing his grief will be then.
My voice came out low, shaking but certain.
“Tell me the truth,” I said, meeting his gaze.
“Are you really not Toby?”
