I'M A SUBSTITUTE HUSBAND

The wrench slipped from my fingers and clattered onto the garage floor, vanishing beneath the belly of a rusted-out Civic I'd been nursing back to life. Outside, the storm howled like a wounded animal, rattling the old metal shutters. The fluorescent lights flickered once, twice. Then they went dead.

Perfect.

I wiped the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, the scent of grease and motor oil clinging to my skin like the weight of my past. Just another night in the life of Ethan Vale-nobody, bastard orphan, backyard mechanic.

Then the door creaked open.

A silhouette stepped inside, umbrella dripping, coat too clean for this side of town. I didn't stop working. Rich people didn't come to my garage unless they needed something.

"You Ethan?" the man asked.

"Depends," I muttered, sliding back from under the car. "You here to repo my tools or preach salvation?"

"Neither," he said. "I'm here with an offer."

He handed me a card-thick, black, expensive. The name embossed on it made my pulse stall.

Reginald Lancaster.

As in the Lancasters. Old money. New scandals. A family so tangled in politics, tech, and pharmaceuticals, you'd think they ran the country-and maybe they did.

The man nodded toward a sleek black car idling outside. "Mr. Lancaster wants a word. Tonight."

"I'm not dressed for billionaire tea parties," I said.

He looked me over. "You're not being invited. You're being summoned."

The Lancaster estate looked like a castle pretending to be a house. Gated walls, statues with eyes that followed you, and enough security to make a prison jealous. I was led down a hall that smelled like old money and older secrets, until I reached the study.

He was there. Reginald Lancaster. Salt-white hair. Jaw like granite. Wearing a three-piece suit that probably cost more than everything I owned combined.

And beside him-

Isabella Lancaster.

The Ice Queen. Heiress. Rumored genius. Rumored murderer, if the tabloids were to be believed.

Her eyes locked onto mine like lasers, scanning, dissecting. No welcome in them. No emotion at all.

"This is him?" she asked, voice smooth and sharp.

"Indeed," Reginald said. "Ethan Vale. Son of Marissa Vale. Half-brother to Jonathan Vale."

My breath caught. "Jonathan's missing. You think I don't know that? Why would you drag me here-"

"To take his place," Reginald said.

Silence.

"What?"

"You'll marry Isabella in his stead. Keep up appearances. The press, the board, the investors-they mustn't know he's gone."

I laughed, dry and bitter. "You think you can just swap in some nobody from a garage and no one'll notice?"

"You look alike. Close enough. And frankly, no one knows Jonathan like that. He was discreet. Distant."

"Like hell I'm doing this."

Reginald leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Two million. Up front. Another two if you last the year."

I looked at Isabella. Still stone. Still silent. Like this was just business.

"It's not just pretending," she said. "You'll be in photos. Interviews. Dinners. You'll be my husband-on paper and in the public eye."

"And off-paper?" I asked.

"Stay out of my way, and you might live to spend that money," she said, voice like a blade.

Something twisted in my gut. A warning, maybe. A whisper in the dark.

But I said yes.

Because I was desperate.

And maybe-because I needed to know why my brother vanished without a trace.

We were married in a private ceremony in the Lancaster garden. No guests. No smiles. The vows were recited like business contracts.

Her fingers were ice when she slipped the ring on mine.

That night, we didn't speak. She vanished into a separate wing of the mansion. I was shown to a room with a bed bigger than my whole apartment and a closet full of tailored suits. I didn't sleep. The shadows were too loud.

I woke at 3:17 AM.

Something moved.

I sat up, heart thudding. The door was ajar. I could've sworn I locked it.

A note had been slid under the door.

In neat, blocky handwriting:

"You're not the first substitute. The last one disappeared."

The next morning, I tested every door. My room had locks. My phone was gone. Replaced with a sleek black one-untraceable, no SIM card. Just a single number saved.

Unknown.

A message popped up: "Midnight. Greenhouse. Come alone."

I pocketed the phone. I wasn't stupid. But I also wasn't going to ignore it.

Breakfast was served in the east wing. I was the only one there. A butler poured my coffee like I was royalty, but not a single soul made eye contact.

Until she walked in.

Isabella.

Dressed in silk and shadows. She didn't sit. Just stared at me from across the room.

"You shouldn't go to the greenhouse," she said softly.

"I didn't say I was."

"You don't have to," she said. "They always do."

"Who?"

Her eyes flicked to the window. "The ones who think they're still in control."

Then she left, leaving behind the scent of danger and something sweeter. Something sad.

Midnight came fast.

The greenhouse stood at the far end of the estate, hidden by rows of trees. The glass fogged with condensation. I stepped inside, boots crunching over old dirt.

It was humid. Silent.

Then-

A voice. "He wasn't the first either."

I turned.

A man stepped from the shadows. Mid-40s. Scar above his right eye. Holding a photo.

"You recognize him?" he asked.

I took the photo. My knees nearly gave out.

It was me.

But older. Beard. Eyes sunken. Wearing a wedding ring.

Dead.

"Who is he?" I whispered.

"Your predecessor. The first Ethan Vale. The original."

When I looked up, the man was gone. No sound. No trace.

I clutched the photo and ran back to the mansion. But my door was ajar again.

Inside-

The USB drive. Gone.

Laptop screen glowing.

A video played.

Isabella. Whispering to someone off-screen: "He can't know the truth yet. It's not time."

The next morning, I confronted her.

"You left the note, didn't you?"

She didn't answer. Just brushed past me. But she paused at the doorway.

"Check the cellar," she said. "If you're brave enough."

I waited until the estate was quiet, then slipped out through the servants' wing and found the entrance to the cellar.

Locked.

But my fingerprint opened it.

Stairs creaked underfoot. Dust thick in the air. A red light blinked at the end of the hall.

Security camera.

A vault door. No handle.

A keypad. Four digits.

I stared.

Tried Jonathan's birthday.

Wrong.

Tried mine.

The door hissed open.

Inside: mannequins wearing suits identical to the ones in my closet. A wall covered in photographs of me. Of Jonathan. Of others who looked like us.

Timestamps. Codes. Files marked "Clone Archive."