His Stand-in Bride

“Our name is a crown, Annie. But a crown can strangle just as easily as it can shine.”

My mother’s voice echoed in my head, as clear as if she were sitting beside me. Instead, I sat at a long glass table surrounded by men old enough to be my father, their suits dark as vultures’ wings, their voices sharp with impatience. The Mendes name lay bleeding in the center of the table, and I could feel the crown tightening around my throat.

The boardroom lights hummed overhead, too bright, too unforgiving. The faint smell of burnt coffee and old paper clung to the air. My father sat stiffly at the head of the table, his once-powerful frame hunched, his tie askew, his eyes shadowed by sleepless nights. He tapped a trembling hand against his water glass, trying to maintain authority he no longer had.

One of the investors leaned forward, slamming a file down. “We can’t keep stalling, Tate. The lawsuits are piling up. Creditors are circling. You promised us a turnaround.”

My father’s jaw tightened. “We’re negotiating new terms. Mendes Corp isn’t going under. I won’t allow it.”

A hollow laugh broke from another man. “Won’t allow it? The numbers don’t lie. Bankruptcy is staring you in the face. Unless you can pull a miracle out of your hat, you’ll be lucky to avoid prison.”

Prison. The word sliced through me like ice. My fingers clenched in my lap, nails biting into my palms. No one looked at me. Not once. I might as well have been a shadow at my father’s side.

I studied him quietly. His once-black hair was streaked with gray, his eyes bloodshot, his hands restless. For years I’d watched him play king, commanding boardrooms with his booming voice, but now he looked like a man dragged down by chains.

The men argued over numbers, contracts, who would jump ship first. Their words blurred, replaced by the pounding in my head. I thought of my mother again, her jeweled hand stroking my hair when I was little, whispering that our name meant power. She never told me power could rot.

A voice jolted me back. “The press is already sniffing around,” an investor snapped. “Once the headlines hit, it’s over. The only thing keeping us quiet is the possibility of a buy-in from Reynolds. Has he even returned your calls?”

My father shifted in his chair. “He’ll come through. Nate Reynolds doesn’t walk away from an opportunity.”

Reynolds. The name made my stomach twist. I’d heard of him, of course. Who in New York hadn’t? Billionaire. Ruthless. A man who turned failing companies into gold or ground them into dust, depending on what suited him.

The meeting dragged on for another hour. I didn’t speak. No one asked for my opinion, though I wanted to scream. By the end, my father’s shoulders sagged as if the weight of the room had crushed him.

When we left, his face was ashen. In the hallway, I touched his arm. “Papa—”

“Not now, Annie.” He shook me off and walked ahead, his shoes echoing against marble floors.

I followed in silence, guilt pressing into me like a blade. Because while my father drowned in debts and men shouted in his face, I’d escaped. I’d given myself one night weeks ago—one single night where I wasn’t Annie Mendes, dutiful daughter, quiet shadow.

I could still feel it sometimes if I let myself. The stranger’s hands on my skin, his breath hot against my throat, the way his eyes burned as if I were the only woman in the world. The hotel sheets tangled around us, the taste of whiskey on his mouth, the ache in my thighs when it was over.

It had been madness. Beautiful, reckless madness. And I hated myself for craving the memory now, when everything was falling apart.

By the time evening came, the house felt heavy, suffocating. The Mendes mansion smelled of polished wood and fading roses, the kind Amelia loved to scatter in every room. I passed through the quiet halls, hearing muffled voices from my father’s office. His tone was clipped, deferential—so unlike him.

I slowed outside the door. His voice carried through the crack.

“Yes, Mr. Reynolds. I understand.” A pause. “Of course. Whatever terms you set.”

My chest tightened.

Then my father’s voice dropped lower, almost pleading. “She’ll be yours, as promised. Amelia won’t object. The marriage will secure everything.”

My hand flew to my mouth. My sister? Amelia? My father was offering her like… like payment.

The silence on the other end stretched. Then his voice, sharp with determination: “We’ll be ready by next week. Yes. Thank you, Nate.”

The call clicked off. I stumbled backward, my pulse thundering in my ears. Marriage. A deal sealed with Amelia’s hand. My father had promised her to Nate Reynolds like she was nothing more than a bargaining chip.

I rushed upstairs, nearly tripping over my gown. Amelia’s room was glowing with lamplight, the faint scent of expensive perfume curling in the air. She stood by the mirror, brushing out her long waves, humming to herself.

“Amelia,” I blurted.

She turned, her silk robe slipping slightly at the shoulder, revealing smooth skin. Her eyes glittered with annoyance. “What now? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I heard Papa. On the phone. He promised you to Nate Reynolds. Amelia, he’s serious.”

She blinked, then laughed. Laughed. The sound was sharp and reckless, bouncing off the walls.

“Of course he did. That’s his style, isn’t it? Sell off his daughter to the highest bidder.” She tossed the brush onto the vanity and reached for a cigarette from the silver case. Lighting it, she drew in a slow drag, the smoke curling around her like a halo of defiance.

“You’re not upset?” I whispered.

She blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Upset? Please. If he thinks I’ll play obedient little bride for Nate Reynolds, he’s insane.” Her lips curved into a wicked smile. “I’d rather burn than marry a man like that.”

The laughter in her voice chilled me, even as the smoke stung my eyes.

And at that moment, I wasn’t sure if she meant it as a joke—or a promise.