A Child For My Sister’s Billionaire Husband

Adelaide's POV "Ah, you feel damn good, Andrea." Victor groaned against my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just above my collarbone. Each kiss sent an electric shiver racing through me, his hands sliding beneath my dress, bunching the fabric at my thighs like he was mapping territory he already owned. But he didn't. Not really. This was wrong—so profoundly wrong—and yet here I was. Adélaïde Hale, the forgotten twin, arching into him like I had any right to this stolen moment. “God, what am I doing?” The thought clawed at the edges of my mind even as pleasure coiled tight in my core, even as his mouth moved lower and made it harder to think at all. Victor was drunk. Really drunk. He'd been knocking back whiskey during the toasts downstairs, his words already slurring when he'd pulled me aside in the garden, drawing me into the shadow of the rose hedges with that slow, certain smile. He'd mistaken me for my sister in the moonlight—Andrea, his bride-to-be. We were identical, after all. Same raven hair cascading in waves, same emerald eyes that could hide a storm. "You look beautiful tonight,"he'd murmured, his lips brushing my ear. I'd frozen. I knew exactly what I should have done—laugh it off, correct him, guide him back inside and point him toward my sister. But I didn't. I stood there while the moment stretched between us, and something bitter and long-buried stirred in my chest. I let him kiss me. Because Andrea always got everything. The lead in every school play while I lingered in the chorus. The scholarships that launched her into Ivy League glory while I scraped by at community college on a prayer and a part-time job. And now Victor Langford—this magnetic, sharp-eyed billionaire with his tech empire and his infuriatingly perfect jawline—the man our father had practically gift-wrapped for her to rescue the family's crumbling finances. She'd dazzled him at some charity gala years ago, or so the story went. Sealed the deal with her ambition and her smile. And I was just the bridesmaid. The shadow. Watching from the sidelines as she claimed yet another prize. Why couldn't I have this? Just once. Just a taste of what it felt like to be wanted. Even if it was built on a lie. He pressed me back against the silk sheets of the guest room bed, the sounds of the rehearsal dinner fading to a distant hum somewhere below us. In here, the world had narrowed to the warmth between us, the intoxicating drag of his cologne, the faint whiskey tang on his breath when he kissed me—deep and slow and devouring. "You drive me crazy," he murmured against my lips. I threaded my fingers through his dark hair and pulled him closer, trying to drown out the voice in the back of my mind still screaming at me to “stop.” He undressed me slowly, almost reverently, his gaze darkening as it traveled over my skin. “So beautiful”, he whispered—and God help me, I believed him. His mouth found my collarbone, my breasts, his touch both careful and consuming, and every nerve ending I had lit up in response. I tugged at his shirt. He shed it without hesitation, and then there was nothing between us but heat and skin and the low, insistent pull of wanting. We moved together like it was inevitable. Like gravity. When he finally pressed into me—slow, deliberate, inch by torturous inch—our eyes locked, and for just a moment the alcohol fog seemed to lift. Something raw passed between us, something that almost felt real. "Yes," I breathed, my nails curving into his back. He found a rhythm, deep and unhurried, and the guilt in my chest twisted tighter with every breath, every gasp, every creak of the bed beneath us. Memories of Andrea flashed through the haze—her face tonight at the bridal shower, flushed and laughing, so genuinely happy. She was my sister. My twin. And tomorrow she would stand beside this man and promise him her whole life. I chased the peak anyway. I hate myself for it, but I did. We shattered together, his groan muffled against my shoulder, my whole body trembling in the aftermath. He pulled me close as he came down, his heartbeat slow and steady against mine, and for one fleeting, treacherous second I let myself wonder what it would feel like if this were real. If I were the one he'd chosen. Then his eyes fluttered shut, his breathing deepening almost immediately, and the spell broke. I slipped free of his arms and sat up in the dark. The guilt hit me like a wave—sudden and cold and absolute. I gathered my clothes quietly, fingers clumsy in the darkness, my pulse still erratic for all the wrong reasons now. When I reached for my phone on the nightstand, a sharp honk cut through the silence from somewhere outside. I went still. Then I crossed to the window and eased the curtain back an inch. Andrea's convertible sat in the driveway below, headlights slicing through the dark. Her heels were just visible in the driver's seat. She was back from the bridal party—but why now? Why so *soon?* My phone buzzed in my hand. Her name lit up the screen. I answered before I could think better of it, forcing my voice into something easy and calm. "Hey, Andy. What's up?" "Where are you?" She sounded light, a little tipsy. "I stopped by the main house but you're not there. The party's winding down—come back for the last toast!" I glanced at Victor. Still asleep, one arm thrown across the pillow where I'd been lying. "I popped home for a second," I said carefully. "Forgot my necklace. I'll be right there." A beat of silence. "Okay, but hurry—" She paused. Then, almost to herself: "Wait. Is that the guest house light on? I'm just going to pull up and…" The line went dead. A car door slammed. Gravel crunched beneath heels, steady and unhurried, growing closer. My breath locked in my throat. I wasn't dressed. Victor was asleep in the bed behind me. And my sister was walking toward the door. Three sharp knocks. Then her voice, warm and easy, carrying right through the wood. "Victor, honey? Are you in there?"