His Substitute, His Madness After My Death

I spent years as Ethan Nelson's stand-in, only for him to decide my heart belonged to his lover.

On the operating table, he said coldly, "Emily, this is what you owe Zoey."

After I died, Ethan lost his mind.

He broke down the morgue door, clutching my cold body, screaming my name over and over.

This time, let him feel what it's like to have his heart ripped out.

01

My name is Emily Scott. For ten years, I've been Ethan's trophy mistress—or as he calls me, his most ungrateful substitute.

Right now, I'm standing in the ballroom of Nelson Manor, wearing some generic beige dress his assistant grabbed off a rack. It's shapeless, outdated, the waistline sagging awkwardly.

Meanwhile, Zoey Garcia glides through the room in this season's haute couture—a champagne-colored mermaid gown that hugs every curve. Around her neck: the diamond necklace Ethan bought her at auction last month.

"Emily! You made it!"

Zoey approaches on Ethan's arm, her voice sickeningly sweet. "I wasn't sure Ethan had invited you."

Ethan doesn't even glance my way. His eyes stay locked on Zoey with a tenderness I haven't seen in ten years.

"Zoey's not feeling well. Don't make her stand around," he finally speaks—to me. "Go get her some warm water. Exactly 104 degrees."

A familiar cramping seizes my stomach. I press my hand against my abdomen, face draining of color.

"What, you got a problem with that?" Ethan's brow furrows, his tone sharpening.

"No." I keep my voice low and turn toward the refreshment area.

Behind me, Zoey's sugary voice drifts over.

"Ethan, don't be so hard on Emily. She's been through a lot..."

"She doesn't deserve your sympathy." His words cut through the air, crystal clear.

My nails dig into my palms. I force my spine straight.

Ten years. This scene has played out countless times. I should be used to it by now.

So why does it still hurt?

Halfway through the evening, Ethan's mother approaches—that woman with her flawless makeup and razor-sharp eyes—carrying a champagne flute.

"Emily, I hear the compatibility results came back? You and Zoey?" Her voice carries just enough to reach nearby guests.

I grip my juice glass tighter. "Yes, Mrs. Nelson."

"Excellent." She nods with satisfaction. "Surgery's scheduled for Monday. Get yourself ready. Ethan's already told you, hasn't he?"

Eyes turn toward me from every direction—curious, pitying, gleeful.

I feel stripped naked under a spotlight, every inch of skin burning.

"Mrs. Nelson, I—"

I want to say I haven't agreed to this. That my body can't handle it.

"Is there a problem?"

Ethan appears out of nowhere, towering over me, casting me in shadow. "Emily, don't make me repeat myself. You owe Zoey this."

Owe? What do I owe Zoey?

Three years ago, I took a car crash meant for Ethan. Glass shards tore through my abdomen. I spent three months in the hospital while Zoey swooped in.

Or maybe I owe her for these years of enduring everyone's contempt, all because I loved him.

The cramping intensifies. Something metallic and warm rises in my throat.

I bite down hard on my lip to keep from throwing up right there.

"Ethan, please don't push Emily like this."

Zoey appears on cue, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"I know... taking cardiac tissue is dangerous. It's normal for Emily to be scared. Maybe we should just... forget it. My condition..."

"No."

Ethan cuts her off, taking her hand. "Your condition can't wait. No matter what, Emily's doing this surgery."

He turns to me, eyes cold as ice—like I'm nothing but a tool.

"Monday morning, nine o'clock. The driver will pick you up. Don't try anything stupid. Remember, your mother's still at that care facility."

The same threat. Always.

He always uses the people I love against me.

I open my mouth. I want to tell him I have stomach cancer. Stage four.

The words "I might not even survive the surgery" hover on my tongue.

But looking into those emotionless eyes, everything catches in my throat.

What's the point? Would he even believe me?

And if he did—would he care?

In Ethan's world, Emily Scott's life has never been worth a damn thing.