The Wrong Twin for the MC Boss

The first thing my twin sister and I did after getting a second chance at life was swap our arranged marriages.

In our past life, Serena was pawned off to Daryl Forrester—the ruthless shot-caller of the Iron Riders Motorcycle Club.

In that long, suffocating excuse for a marriage, he never once had her back in front of his crew. She was a ghost on his turf. No real status, no kids, just the hollow title of "Old Lady."

She withered away silently in that cold prison, forced to watch as her husband handed out all his patience and protection to his adopted sister, Chloe.

And me? I got hitched to Julian Ashford, a polished, elegant classical musician.

He respected his sheet music way more than his wife. To him, a woman should be just like his cello: quiet, compliant, and a perfectly decorative prop.

I figured he should have checked if he had a glass jaw before trying to lecture me on "socialite etiquette."

Our marriage barely lasted eleven months. After that, he packed up his bruised ego and moved overnight into a soundproof practice room with double electronic locks. Meanwhile, I wore my notorious reputation like a crown and went right back to living my best life.

Then, Serena and I opened our eyes and found ourselves back at twenty-two. It was the exact morning the elders were finalizing the marriage arrangements.

As I threw a heavy wrench into my black duffel bag, Serena found me, her eyes red-rimmed.

"What are you doing?" she asked, staring at the pile of scuffed leather biker jackets and Doc Martens dumped on my bed.

"Swapping grooms," I said, zipping up the bag. "I'm taking the MC deal. You go marry your refined cellist."

"Sam, you can't just—"

"Why not? That damn family treaty only says a Sinclair granddaughter has to marry the Forrester heir to settle the turf war. It doesn't name names."

I slung the heavy tool bag over my shoulder. "You suffered a lifetime in that frigid marriage. Decades, Serena. No validation, no connection, nothing. In the last life, I watched that neglect literally erase you."

Her eyes instantly welled up.

She knew exactly what I meant. We shared those desperate memories.

"He's a ruthless bastard who only cares about club loyalty," she whispered. "And that crew is a pack of lawless thugs. They'll eat you alive."

"Let them try. I'm always down for a brawl."

"And that woman, Chloe... flaunting the blood debt because her parents took a fatal bullet for Daryl. She played the innocent, fragile victim every single day. Her tears and endless emotional blackmail were the reason I—" Her voice broke.

"I know how the 'fake saint' game is played," I said, snatching up the keys to my heavy Harley. "That's exactly why it has to be me. You're too kind, too decent. You can't survive a gutter rat who uses dead folks as bargaining chips. I'm different. I don't give a shit about guilt trips."

She grabbed my wrist. "Sam..."

"Listen. If I can make it work, great. If not, I'll tear up the marriage certificate and ride off. As long as I don't bow my head, no one can force me into a damn thing. I've got this."

She was silent for a long time. Then she turned, opened the bottom hidden drawer of her vanity, and pulled out a thick manila envelope.

"What are you doing?"

"Put this in." She snatched my canvas bag without hesitation, unzipped a pocket, and shoved the envelope inside before I could stop her.

"Serena, I don't need—"

"You're driving halfway across the state alone to take over a fate that was supposed to destroy me." She looked up. Her usually soft eyes were red, but her voice was surprisingly steady. "The least I can do is make sure you don't run out of gas money."

I swallowed hard. I wanted to pull the envelope out and toss it right back to her, but she held the zipper tight.

"...For a girl who usually cries at the drop of a hat, you're pretty slick at funding a getaway."

She laughed. Tears slid down her cheeks, but the sound was full of sheer relief.

By the crack of dawn, I cranked the throttle and hit the interstate. The canvas bag weighed heavy on the pillion, and the East Coast shrank to a speck in my rearview mirror.

The comms in my helmet flashed frantically. Twenty-one missed calls. It was my image-obsessed mother.

I hit accept, and the wind immediately roared through the speaker.

"Samantha! Turn around right now!" My mother's shrill voice practically pierced the wind, laced with poorly hidden panic. "Do you have any idea what you're doing?! Daryl is a cold-blooded psycho! With your explosive temper, why the hell are you going out of your way to provoke him?!"

I raised an eyebrow, unfazed. "I already emailed the family lawyer, Mom. The treaty says they get a Sinclair daughter. It doesn't guarantee they get the sweet, obedient one."

"Do you even understand what a biker gang is?! Your fiery temper is just going to piss off the entire Iron Riders club! Are you trying to start a full-blown war and get us all killed?! Give the spot back to Serena right now and—"

"Hitting a storm front, Mom! Wind's too loud, can't hear you! Love you, bye!"

I cut the feed before her screeching could shatter my eardrums. The world snapped back to a peaceful quiet, leaving only the fierce rumble of the V-twin engine.

A brief pang of guilt churned in my stomach, then vanished. She'd forgive me eventually—maybe when I shipped her a solid steel MC skull paperweight for Christmas.

Either way, there was no turning back.

A full day of riding. Blacktop turned to gravel, gravel bled into mud tracks, and finally, nothing but the dead silence of the rugged wilderness.

The last dozen miles to the MC's compound, "The Yard," were pure hell. A torrential downpour lashed at me, heavy rain and gale-force winds hitting like crushed stone. I didn't slow down, and I sure as hell didn't look for cover. I just pinned the throttle and tore through it.

Tires kicked up flying mud. My soaked leather jacket reeked of engine oil, rain, and the gritty scent of worn hide. I wiped the sludge from my face and, amidst the howling storm, couldn't stop the smirk from spreading. I laughed out loud.

What a rush.

Good thing it was me today. If it had been Serena, this killer storm alone would have broken her. But this savage wasteland of motorcycles, iron fists, and mud? It was practically begging for me to rule it.

With a screeching halt, my heavy Harley carved a deep trench in the gravel, stopping dead outside massive, rusted iron gates bearing the Iron Riders' skull insignia.

Clack. I kicked the kickstand down.

Keeping my helmet on, I grabbed my heavy canvas tool bag with one hand and marched right into the muddy puddles. I booted the half-open iron door wide and strode into the semi-open garage, bringing the storm in with me.

I bet this crew of tattooed thugs was just waiting for a punchline—expecting some trembling socialite with ruined makeup. Too bad they were getting the devil incarnate instead.

Just as I was about to slam my solid steel wrench onto the metal bar as a greeting, a sickly sweet female voice floated down from the second-floor stairwell...

"Why does it suddenly smell like cheap gasoline and a drowned rat in here?"

Beneath my helmet, my movements paused. Slowly, I lifted my head.