The sirens were getting closer.
Damian didn't flinch. "Police response time in Manhattan is eight minutes," he said, like he was reading a stock ticker. "I have four. Which is three more than I need."
The gun didn't waver. Not at Celeste. At me.
"Why?" I asked. My voice was steady. Forger's hands. Forger's heart. "Why not just kill me three years ago at the fundraiser?"
"Because three years ago, you were nobody," he said. "You had no legal tie to Kaine Corp. No claim. No value. But a wife?" He tilted his head. "A wife who dies on her wedding night creates sympathy. Drives up the stock. And a grieving husband who inherits from _both_ twins? That's a dynasty."
Celeste laughed. It was a broken sound. "You tell yourself that, Dame. But you didn't count on her being smarter than both of us."
Damian's eyes flicked to her. "The dental records-"
"Were mine," Celeste said. "But the DNA won't be. I switched the charts, not the blood. The body in the Hudson? That's Jane Doe #347. No family. Terminal cancer. I paid her hospice bills. She wanted to die useful."
For the first time, Damian looked uncertain.
That's when I moved.
Not toward the gun. Toward the casket.
I slammed my palm against the mahogany. "You want a body, Damian? Open it."
He didn't move. "It's empty. I checked."
"No," Celeste said softly. "You checked for _her_."
The sirens were on the street now. Red and blue lights painting the funeral home windows.
Damian took one step toward the casket, gun still on me. He flipped the lid with his free hand.
The casket was not empty.
Lucien Kaine lay inside, dressed in my bridesmaid dress, a bullet hole in his forehead. In his cold hand: the real merger documents. Not the ones I signed. The originals. The ones that dissolved Kaine Corp and transferred every asset to a trust in _my_ name. Not Celeste's. Not Damian's.
Elise Marie Kaine, sole beneficiary.
Dated three years ago.
Signed by Lucien Kaine, CEO.
Damian went white. "That's not-he's been dead for-"
"He's been in Argentina," Celeste said. "Running the company from a beach. You declared him dead, so he couldn't come back. But he could still _sign_. And he did. The night you proposed to me."
I finally understood. "You weren't faking his death to protect Dad. You were faking it to steal the company from _him_. But he beat you to it. He signed it all to me before you could bury him."
Lucien had loved Celeste. But he'd trusted _me_. The girl who took the punishments. The girl who kept secrets.
"Why the dress?" Damian whispered.
"Because you were always going to kill one of us," Celeste said. "I just made sure you killed the right one."
The doors burst open. NYPD. FBI. Marco was with them, hands up, yelling, "He's got a gun! The one in the suit!"
Damian turned, instinctively. One second. One mistake.
I grabbed the gun.
I didn't point it at him.
I pointed it at Celeste.
She didn't flinch. "Do it," she said. "End it. It's what you should have done in the bridal suite. Let me run. Let me die. Just stop _fixing_ me."
The cop screamed, "Drop the weapon!"
I looked at Damian. He was already calculating, already looking for the next angle, the next loophole. He'd survive prison. Men like him always did.
I looked at Celeste. My twin. My burden. My mirror. She'd spent her whole life making messes so I could prove I was the good one.
I was tired of being good.
I lowered the gun. Dropped it.
And pulled the burner phone from my pocket.
I hit play.
Damian's voice filled the funeral home, recorded from the penthouse last night: _"The real contingency clause doesn't give the company to the wife. It gives it to the surviving twin. I married Celeste on paper. But if she dies, and you're legally declared dead... there's no one left to inherit but me."_
Followed by: _"Now I just need one body. Yours or hers. The police won't check twice."_
Damian's face did something I'd never seen before.
He looked afraid.
The FBI cuffed him first. Murder. Conspiracy. Fraud. Lucien's body was real. The confession was real. The documents in the casket were real.
They tried to cuff Celeste next.
I stepped between them. "She's dead," I said, holding up the obituary. "Elise Marie Kaine. Dental records matched. You said it yourself."
The detective frowned. "Then who-"
"Jane Doe #347," I said. "Celeste will sign the affidavit. She was traumatized. Confused. Misidentified the body in her grief."
It was a lie. A forgery. My best one yet.
Celeste stared at me. "Elise-"
"Shut up," I said. "You're dead. Dead girls don't talk."
---
*One Year Later*
The Kaine Corp building is now a women's shelter. The trust pays for everything. Dental records, legal aid, new identities.
Celeste works there. Name: Jane. She scrubs floors. She doesn't touch money. She doesn't run anymore.
I visit every Thursday. We don't talk about Damian. He got life. He still sends me letters. All of them say the same thing: _You were always the wrong twin. I should have buried you first._
I haven't decided if he's right.
Marco left flowers on Lucien's real grave last week. White roses. I still hate them. I still get hives.
Today, a girl came into the shelter. Sixteen. Scared. Said her sister was trying to steal her life.
I gave her a cup of tea. Chamomile.
And I told her, "Good. Let her. Then you'll know exactly who you are without her."
She didn't understand. She will.
