His Fake Death, Her Real Power

day before my wedding. The sky w

ff voice on the other

this i

but your fiancé, David Peterson, was involved in a gang-related

clattered onto the hardwood floor. The world went silent, then rushed back in a roar of white noise. Dav

of ice that made it hard to breathe. I was five months pregnant

hand, her face a mask of sorrow, but her eyes were strangely dry. His identical twin brother, Mark, was supp

d ended. Da

h, I tried to kil

ing pills. Mrs. Peterson found me, her f

edsheet in my closet. A neighbor, checking in on

for an end to a pain that was too large to carry. Each time, I was found. Each time, I

ping my hair, the city lights a distant, indifferent glitter. But I couldn't do it. I thought of the b

it was for my own good, so they could watch over me.

as slightly ajar. I heard voices inside, hushed and urgent. It was Mrs. Peterson and a man wh

my hand pressed

aid, her voice tight with strain. "Sarah is fall

ld. David? But

David's voice-replied. It was him. It was unmistaka

a?" his mo

rk. She needs me," David said. "Pretending to be Mark is the o

r wasn't Mark. It was supposed to be David. He had faked his de

Is that also to 'protect' her?"

... we have a connection. She ne

David. While your pregnant fiancée is tryin

he repeated, the words a hollow excuse

shed for death-it was all based on a lie. A monstrous, selfish lie. He hadn't died to protect me. He had "died" to be with

d into something hard and sharp. The pain d

ack to my room, the one they had given me, the one that felt like a cage.

n Thorne. David's biggest business rival. A man David hated, a man who had once, half-jokingly at a charity g

button. He answered

, his voice deep

my own voice su

, this is S

ss Miller. I was sorry to hear

words tasting like ash. "

o

g. "The one for a hundred-million-dollar