The Life That Wasn't Mine

Ivy

CRACK.

The crack of it is louder than the pain, a sharp sound that echoes off the dining room walls before I even feel my skin burn. My head snaps to the right, my hair falling over my face, and I stay like that, staring at the floor patterns. I can taste blood, and I tell myself not to blink, because if I blink, I’ll cry. I haven't cried since I was nine years old, and I am not starting now.

"Look at me, Ivy," my father says, his voice flat.

I turn back slowly, keeping my neck stiff, my cheek feeling like someone held a match to it. Across the table, he is cutting his meat like nothing happened.

"I'm looking," I say, my voice a small, hard thing.

"Good. Then listen. Your sister is gone. She ran like a coward in the middle of the night, and she left us with a debt we cannot pay and a man who does not like to be kept waiting."

"Where did she go?" I ask, though I already know the answer doesn't matter. To him, she’s just a ghost now.

"It doesn't matter," he says, putting a piece of meat in his mouth and chewing slowly. "The Hale arrangement still stands. Alistair Hale is expecting a Carter girl to arrive at his gates by midnight. He’s never laid eyes on Zara, he’s never met her in person, and he is too busy to be doing background checks on which twin is which. You understand what that means, don't you?"

My stomach drops, a cold, heavy weight settling in my gut that makes me want to be sick right there on the rug.

"Father," I say, my voice shaking just a little, "I'm not Zara. We have the same face, but I'm not her. I don't know the things she knows."

"You have her eyes, you have her hair, and right now, you have her life," he interrupts, leaning forward until I can see the broken veins in his eyes. "You think I’m asking? You think this is a choice? The Hales have been paying for your mother’s doctors for three years. They pay for this roof. They pay for the clothes you’re wearing. If Alistair Hale doesn't get his bride, those checks stop, and your mother is out on the street with nothing but her cough to keep her warm. Do you want that?"

"No," I whisper.

"Then you are Zara. From this moment on, Ivy Carter is dead. You are the girl who is going to marry a billionaire so this family can survive. Are we clear?"

"She was the one you wanted," I say, the bitterness leaking out before I can stop it. "You spent every cent on her. You gave her the tutors, the dresses, the parties. You kept me in the library, hidden away like a secret you were ashamed of. I’m the invisible one, remember? You said I was the backup."

"And the backup is being called in," he says, standing up and wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Go to your room. Pack a bag. One small bag. They come for you in an hour. If you say a single word to the driver that isn't Zara’s name, I will make sure you regret it."

"What about Mom? Can I see her?" I ask, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"She’s sleeping. Leave her be. She doesn't need to see what a disappointment her daughters are."

I turn and walk away before a second slap can land, my legs feeling like they belong to a stranger. I climb the stairs, the wood creaking under my feet, and I walk past the closed door where my mother stays. From inside, I hear it. That wet, dragging cough, the sound of her lungs fighting for air. I want to go in. I want to tell her I'm leaving, that I’m scared, that I don't know how to be a person someone would want to marry.

But I don't. Because if I go in, I’ll fall apart, and if I fall apart, my father will hear me.

In my room, the air feels cold. I pull a small suitcase from under the bed and start throwing things in. A few sweaters. A pair of jeans. I see the book Zara left on my nightstand, a trashy romance novel she thought was funny. I pick it up, feeling the weight of it, the ghost of her hands on the pages. She was always the golden one. She was the one who was supposed to save us. I was just the shadow that followed her around, the girl who read books and watched from the corners while she learned how to smile for the cameras.

I put the book back on the shelf. I can’t take it. I can't take anything that belongs to Ivy.

I catch myself in the mirror. I have the same emerald eyes as her, the same long, dark hair, the same pale skin. But while Zara’s eyes were always bright and demanding, mine are quiet.

"You're not Ivy," I tell my reflection, my voice sounds strange in the empty room. "You're Zara. You're the prize."

The sound of a car pulling up the gravel driveway makes me jump. It’s a low, heavy sound, the sound of an expensive engine. I zip the bag, my hands finally stopping their shaking. I don't say goodbye to the house. I don't say goodbye to the cough. I just walk down the stairs.

My father is standing by the front door. He doesn't hug me. He doesn't even look me in the eye. He just opens the door and points to the black limousine idling in the dark.

"Don't fail me," he says.

"I’m doing this for Mom," I say, stepping past him into the night air. "Not for you." And I step past him.

I get into the back of the car. The leather is cool and smells nice. The door closes with a quiet, solid click, a sound that feels like a prison cell locking. I watch through the tinted glass as the house gets smaller, the lights of my mother’s bedroom flickering once before they disappear behind the trees.

The driver is a man in a sharp suit, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror for a second.

"Good evening, Miss Carter," he says. "Mr. Hale is very much looking forward to your arrival."

"Thank you," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm looking forward to it too."

The lie feels like a stone in my mouth. And I look out at the dark road, my mind racing.