His Duplicate Bride

The silken lace of the bridal veil clung to Ivy’s damp cheeks, suffocating her with every shallow breath.

Her palms were slick with cold sweat beneath the satin sleeves. Tucked securely within the voluminous folds of the couture gown was a small hidden pocket containing an empty plastic vial and a single unused syringe. Her blood sugar was slipping dangerously low; the telltale buzzing in her ears had already begun, accompanied by a faint tremor in her knees.

Just say the words, Victoria Reynolds’ venomous whisper echoed in her mind from hours earlier, sharp as broken glass. Say ‘I do,’ survive the ceremony, and your insulin will be waiting at the estate. Refuse, and you die in the gutter like the beggar you are.

Ivy closed her eyes behind the lace, fighting against the creeping dizziness. She had no money, no living family, and barely four dollars left in her savings account. Without the Reynolds family's supply of insulin, her body would slip into a diabetic coma within forty-eight hours. They had calculated her desperation down to the millimeter, turning her chronic illness into an inescapable leash.

Beside her at the altar stood Scott Sterling.

He was towering, broad-shouldered, and impeccably tailored in charcoal wool, but his posture was rigid as granite. Over his eyes sat a pair of dark, polarized spectacles that hid his gaze entirely from the world. In his left hand, the silver handle of a walking cane was gripped with enough force to turn his knuckles white against the metal.

Six months ago, Scott had been the undisputed king of Manhattan finance—brilliant, ruthless, and celebrated. But a horrific crash on the rain-slicked highway had stolen his sight and shattered his world, turning him into a reclusive shadow confined to his family’s darkened estate. Today, he was standing in a private stone-walled chapel, being married off in an arranged union designed to salvage Reynolds Enterprises from complete financial ruin.

Dianne Reynolds had thrown a hysterical tantrum when the contract was finalized. “I won’t marry a blind invalid!” she had shrieked before packing her designer luggage and boarding a flight to Paris under an alias.

To prevent the Sterlings from discovering the breach and revoking their multi-million-dollar lifeline, Richard and Victoria had turned to Ivy. With her honey-blonde hair, delicate jawline, and striking gray eyes, Ivy was an uncanny physical double for their spoiled daughter. Under the heavy, multi-layered cathedral veil, no one would notice the difference—especially not a groom who couldn't see.

"Do you, Scott Julian Sterling," the elderly minister intoned, his frail voice echoing through the vaulted stone chapel, "take Dianne Victoria Reynolds to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, so long as you both shall live?"

A humorless, mocking sneer curled the corner of Scott’s sculpted lips.

"I do," Scott answered, his deep baritone slicing through the chilly silence like a cold scalpel. There was no warmth in his tone, only the bitter resignation of a man who knew he was being traded like stock.

The minister turned his rheumy eyes toward Ivy. "And do you, Dianne Victoria Reynolds, take Scott Julian Sterling to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

Ivy’s throat seized.

Her heart hammered violently against her ribs, each beat sending a pulse of terror through her temples. She was an orphan maid who had spent the last four years scrubbing bathroom tiles, polishing silverware, and enduring Dianne's cruel whims. If she spoke the vow, she was committing criminal fraud against one of the most powerful dynasties in the country. But if she ran, her body would fail her before she could cross the county line.

She had to survive.

"I... I do," Ivy whispered, her voice barely louder than the rustle of silk.

Beside her, Scott’s jaw tightened sharply.

At the sound of her soft, hesitant syllables, his head tilted a fraction of an inch in her direction. His dark brow knitted into a sharp, suspicious crease above his glasses. He didn't wait for the priest to instruct them to join hands. Instead, his long fingers reached through the empty air and locked around her right wrist with sudden, startling precision.

Ivy gasped softly at the sheer strength of his grip.

Scott didn't just hold her. His callused thumb dragged slowly across her inner wrist, feeling the rapid, panicked flutter of her pulse beneath her pale skin. Then, his fingers slid downward, pressing firmly into the palm of her hand.

Scott froze.

The real Dianne Reynolds spent thousands of dollars every month on paraffin wax treatments, organic lotions, and professional manicures. Her hands were soft, pampered, and untouched by a single chore.

The palm beneath Scott’s fingers was slender, but the pads of her fingertips were rough. There were unmistakable calluses along her inner knuckles—the permanent mark of scrubbing brushes, scalding water, and heavy manual labor.

Worse, as Scott leaned slightly closer, his sharp, sensory-attuned nose caught her scent. It wasn't the heavy, cloying French gardenia perfume Dianne had drenched herself in whenever they crossed paths before his accident.

It was faint, clean, and understated—smelling of cold water, plain lye soap, and the subtle, sweet essence of orange blossoms.

"By the power vested in me," the priest hurried on, uneasy with the mounting tension between the couple, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

Scott didn't lift the veil. He didn't make a move toward her lips.

Instead, he stepped closer until the broad wall of his chest nearly touched hers. He leaned down, his warm breath cutting through the delicate lace shielding her cheek, sending a violent shiver down the back of her neck.

"A rather delicate voice for a woman who spent two years shouting at staff across Manhattan," Scott whispered, his baritone dangerously low, meant only for her ears. His thumb pressed harder into the rough callus at the base of her index finger. "And what remarkably rough hands for an heiress, darling."

Ivy’s breath hitched, the blood draining entirely from her face.

Before she could form a reply, Scott dropped her wrist as if her touch burned him. He tapped his cane sharply against the flagstones, pivoted on his heel, and strode down the aisle into the shadowed foyer without looking back.

"Thomas," Scott barked coldly to his waiting butler. "Take me to the car. Let my new bride savor her little victory while she still can."

Ivy stood alone before the altar, clutching her trembling hands against her chest as the heavy chapel doors slammed shut in the distance. The blind billionaire had uncovered her fraud in less than ten seconds.

The limousine ride to the Sterling estate felt like an escort to a firing squad.

Scott sat in the far corner of the plush leather bench, staring straight ahead through his dark lenses. Not a single word parted his lips. The silence between them was an iron wall, broken only by the rhythmic hum of rain lashing against tinted windows.

Ivy sat as far from him as the leather bench allowed, her trembling fingers buried deep in the satin folds of the designer gown. Her vision swam. Small, iridescent halos flickered at the edges of the dark car interior—her body’s desperate alarm bell that her blood glucose was dipping into critical territory.

Hold on, she told herself, biting the inside of her cheek until the sharp tang of copper grounded her. Just get inside. Find the bag.

The limousine rolled to a smooth halt before towering wrought-iron gates, purring up a long, winding gravel drive before stopping under the portico of an i