His Perfect Lie, My Shattered World

I thought I had the perfect marriage to Emerson Gonzales, the most powerful man in the music industry. When the doctor confirmed our baby had a strong, healthy heartbeat, I felt like the luckiest woman alive.

That was before I discovered the truth. I wasn't his wife; I was a substitute. A perfect imitation of his cousin Gisele, who had been in a coma for three years.

The baby wasn't meant to be mine, either. It was a "legacy" for Gisele, a gift for when she woke up.

And when she did wake up, my life became a living hell. She shattered the last memento of my dead mother, and Emerson told me it was just a "cheap little figurine." He had me brutally beaten for her amusement, recording the whole thing as a tribute.

But that wasn't the worst of it. Gisele attacked me, causing a violent miscarriage. Then, she threw the ashes of my mother and my unborn child on the floor and ground them into the dirt with her heel.

My husband, my hero, my entire world-all of it was a calculated sham. I was just an incubator, and now, I was disposable.

With nothing left to lose, I took my passport and fled to Paris. When he finally found me, begging me to come home for the sake of "our baby," I just showed him the medical report.

"What baby are you talking about, Emerson?"

Chapter 1

Adeline Combs POV:

My baby wasn' t supposed to be mine. He was meant to be a gift for another woman-a living, breathing continuation of a love that had never included me. I just didn't know it yet.

The air in the examination room was cold, smelling of antiseptic and latex. I sat on the edge of the paper-lined table, my fingers tracing the slight curve of my stomach through my thin cotton dress. A small, secret smile played on my lips.

Everything was perfect. The doctor had just confirmed it, her own smile warm and genuine as she pointed to the grainy black-and-white image on the screen. "A strong, healthy heartbeat, Mrs. Gonzales. Everything is progressing beautifully."

Relief washed over me, so potent it almost made me dizzy.

Usually, Emerson would be here for these appointments. He' d hold my hand, his thumb stroking my knuckles, his dark eyes fixed on the monitor with an intensity that made my heart ache with love. He' d murmur reassurances, his voice a low, soothing melody that calmed all my fears. Today, a last-minute crisis at the record label had called him away. It was the first time I' d come alone, and the silence in the room felt vast and hollow without him.

I pulled out my phone, my fingers flying across the screen.

Everything' s perfect. The baby is healthy and strong. I miss you.

I hit send, imagining his handsome face breaking into that rare, breathtaking smile he reserved just for me. He' d probably call the second he saw the message.

I slid off the table, the paper crinkling beneath me. As I walked down the long, sterile hallway of the private clinic, my phone remained silent. I pushed down a sliver of disappointment. He was Emerson Gonzales, the most powerful man in the music industry. Crises were part of his world.

Just as I reached the polished glass doors of the main entrance, a flash of movement outside caught my eye. A sleek black car, Emerson' s car, was pulling away from the curb. My heart leaped. Had he managed to get here after all?

But then I saw him. He wasn't getting out; he was already on the sidewalk, his back to me, moving with that familiar, confident stride. He wasn' t alone.

A woman in a wheelchair was beside him, and he was leaning down, his arm wrapped around her shoulders in a gesture of intimate care.

"Emerson!" I called out, my voice thin against the city noise.

He didn't turn. It was like he hadn't heard me at all. He opened the passenger door of his car, his movements gentle as he helped the woman from her chair.

Something cold trickled down my spine. I took a step forward, an unconscious, instinctual pull towards him, towards the man I loved. I followed him, my steps silent on the pavement, until I was just a few feet from a half-open door to a private waiting room.

Through the gap, I saw them. He was stroking her hair, his touch infinitely tender. Her face was turned away from me, but the cascade of dark, silky hair was an exact mirror of my own. My heart stopped. It didn't just stutter; it ceased to beat for one, two, three agonizing seconds.

Then, another man I recognized as one of Emerson's producers, Liam, walked in, a smirk on his face.

"Still playing nursemaid to the sleeping beauty, Emerson?" Liam chuckled. "You found a pretty good substitute, though. Almost identical."

My blood ran cold. The air thickened, pressing in on me until I couldn't breathe.

Emerson didn' t even look up from the woman. His voice was low, devoid of the warmth I knew so well. It was the voice he used in boardrooms-cool, detached, absolute.

"Adeline is not a substitute," he said, and for a wild, hopeful second, my world righted itself. Then he continued, "She is a perfect imitation. A necessary one, until Gisele wakes up."

The words hit me like a physical blow. My body trembled so violently I had to press my hand against the cool brick wall to stay upright.

Gisele.

Gisele Gonzales. Emerson' s cousin. The brilliant, celebrated star artist of his label, the woman who had been in a coma for the last three years following a tragic car accident. The woman whose musical style was so uncannily like mine that critics had once dismissed me as a pale imitation.

And the woman who had made my childhood a living hell.

Back then, she was the golden girl, and I was the charity case, the poor relation taken in after my father, her father' s less successful brother, died, leaving me orphaned. She' d delighted in tormenting me, her cruelty a sharp, constant sting. My father, a composer of quiet, heartbreaking genius, had left me with nothing but his last original manuscript, a piece of music that was my most sacred possession.

Emerson had been my only salvation. He' d seen me, this obscure composer, and swept me off my feet. He championed my music, shielded me from critics, and loved me with a fierce, all-consuming passion that healed every scar Gisele had ever left. He had built me a world where I was cherished, where I was safe.

Two years ago, a fire had broken out in my studio. It was a small electrical fire, but it had threatened to consume everything, including my father' s manuscript. Emerson had rushed in without a second' s thought, shielding the manuscript with his own body. He' d suffered second-degree burns on his back, a permanent T-shaped scar he bore as a testament to his love.

Lying in the hospital bed afterwards, his voice hoarse from the smoke, he had looked at me with tears in his eyes. "Adeline," he' d whispered, "I would burn for you. I would die for you. Just say you' ll be my wife."

How could I not say yes? I had fallen completely, irrevocably in love.

Now, standing outside that door, listening to the casual destruction of my life, another piece of the conversation drifted out.

"That fire was a stroke of genius, man," Liam said, laughing. "Getting that scar just to win her over? A bit dramatic, but it worked. She' s been wrapped around your finger ever since."

My breath hitched. My entire body went numb.

Emerson' s reply was a low murmur, but I heard it as clearly as if he' d screamed it in my ear. "It was a necessary investment."

An investment. My husband, my hero, my entire world-all of it was a calculated sham.

"And the kid?" Liam asked. "What happens when Gisele is back on her feet?"

Emerson's voice was chillingly pragmatic. "The child will be raised as Gisele' s. It will be her heir, the Gonzales legacy. Adeline can be its nanny. It' s the least she can do after everything I' ve given her."

I couldn't hear anymore. I backed away from the door, my movements stiff and robotic. I walked out into the blinding afternoon sun, but I felt no warmth. My world had been plunged into an endless, freezing winter.

Tears streamed down my face, silent and hot. I needed him. Not Emerson. The him that was buried under a cold marble slab on a lonely hill.

I don' t remember the taxi ride. I only remember the cold iron gates of the cemetery and the long, winding path up the hill. I fell to my knees before his grave, my white dress instantly stained with mud and damp earth.

Robert Combs. Beloved Father and Composer.

The sky, as if sensing the storm inside me, opened up. A cold, torrential rain began to fall, plastering my hair to my face and soaking me to the bone in seconds. I didn't care. I just kept wiping the rainwater from the smooth, cold stone of his name, as if I could somehow wipe away the pain.

Suddenly, the rain stopped hitting me. A large black umbrella appeared over my head.

"Adeline? What in God's name are you doing?" Emerson' s voice was laced with worry, with a sharp edge of reprimand. "You' ll catch your death out here."

I looked up at him, my vision blurred by rain and tears. His face, the face I had loved more than life itself, was a mask of concern. When he saw my pale, ravaged expression, his tone softened.

"Oh, baby," he murmured, kneeling beside me, his expensive suit heedless of the mud. "Were you thinking of him again? Come on, you can' t do this to yourself. Not now."

He tried to pull me up, his touch gentle, practiced. "Let's go home. I'll run you a hot bath. You and the baby need to be warm and safe."

His phone buzzed. He pulled it out, his brow furrowing as he glanced at the screen. He answered it, his voice instantly tense. He spoke in rapid, fluent Spanish, a language he thought I' d never bothered to learn after my father, whose mother was from Spain, had passed away.

"¿Qué? ¿Despertó? ¿Estás seguro?" What? She woke up? Are you sure?

His entire posture shifted. The concern for me vanished, replaced by an urgent, frantic energy I had never seen before.

He shoved the umbrella into my hand, his movements abrupt. "Stay here. I'll send a driver."

He turned and ran, slipping and sliding on the wet grass, his focus entirely on getting to his car, on getting to her. He didn't look back. He didn' t even spare me a single glance.

I stood there, holding the umbrella, the rain drumming a hollow rhythm above me. And then, a sound escaped my lips. It wasn't a sob. It was a laugh. A broken, hysterical laugh that echoed in the empty, rain-swept cemetery.

He was going to her. To the real thing. The imitation was no longer needed.

The rain intensified, but I didn't feel it. I started walking down the slippery hill, my hand instinctively cradling my stomach. I stumbled once, twice, my arms flailing for balance, my entire focus on protecting the tiny life inside me.

But why? Why was I protecting it? So it could be a legacy for a woman who despised me? A gift from a man who saw me as nothing more than a vessel?

By the time I reached our vast, empty house, I was drenched and shivering, but my mind was terrifyingly clear. The photographs on the wall, the music sheets on the grand piano, the scent of the lilies he bought me every week-every sweet memory was now a bitter poison.

I walked into my studio, my fingers numb as I picked up my phone. I made two calls.

The first was to a clinic, my voice flat and devoid of emotion as I scheduled an appointment.

The second was to the international music conservatory that had offered me a full scholarship three years ago, an offer I had turned down for Emerson.

"Yes," I said, my voice steady for the first time all day. "I' d like to accept my place in the postgraduate composition program."

The charade was over.