The Other Wife

The Other Man

The Blackwood penthouse still didn’t feel real.

Sophia sat curled on the velvet sofa, the city skyline sprawling endlessly beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. It had only been a few days since the wedding, but she still felt like an intruder trespassing in a world that wasn’t hers. Every polished marble surface, every expensive art piece, every faint trace of Elena’s perfume that lingered in the air reminded her: this life didn’t belong to Sophia

Martinez.

It belonged to Elena.

Her sister’s clothes filled the walk-in closet. Elena’s photos smiled from gilded frames in the hallway—her with Alexander at charity galas, on yachts, arm in arm like a perfect society couple. Sophia’s reflection in the glass looked wrong, like a counterfeit displayed among originals.

She ran her hand over her stomach. A baby. Elena’s diary had spelled it all out in crisp, cruel handwriting. The positive pregnancy test tucked in its pages. The ultrasound photo. The love letters Elena had written to a man who wasn’t

Alexander.

Carlos Rivera.

The name echoed in her mind like a curse. Elena’s plan had been brilliant in its wickedness: seduce Alexander with the promise of

family, secure the Blackwood fortune through marriage, pass off another man’s child as his miracle heir, and vanish with Carlos once the inheritance clause released the money.

Except Elena hadn’t lived long enough to execute it.

And now Sophia, by some twisted fate, was trapped in the wreckage of that plan—wearing her sister’s face, her ring, her name. Pretending to carry her child.

The intercom buzzed.

Sophia jumped. Her heart slammed into her ribs. Few people ever came directly to the penthouse unannounced. Alexander was still at the office, tied up in back-to-back meetings. Victoria Blackwood never came without warning—she preferred summoning “Elena” to her mansion like a queen commanding a servant.

“Mrs. Blackwood?” The doorman’s voice crackled through the speaker. “There’s a Mr. Rivera here to see you.”

Sophia froze. The room tilted. Rivera.

Her throat dried. “Send him… up.” The words slipped out before she could stop herself.

She didn’t know why she said it. Maybe part of her needed to see him, needed confirmation that Elena’s words on paper had been real flesh and blood. Maybe she already knew the truth—and wanted to face the monster her sister had loved.

The elevator chimed a moment later, and out stepped Carlos Rivera.

He looked like trouble wrapped in designer clothes. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark eyes that glimmered with charm sharpened into something dangerous. His smile was lazy, practiced, the kind that could seduce and destroy in equal measure.

“You’re not Elena.” His first words cut straight through the air.

Sophia’s mouth went dry. “I… don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Carlos laughed softly, closing the distance between them with confident strides. “Don’t insult me. Elena had a scar on her left hand—fell off a bike when she was ten. You don’t. And Elena would have already called me a bastard in Spanish by now.” He tilted his

head, studying her face with unnerving intimacy. “You’re the sister. Sophia, right? The saint. The good twin.”

Sophia’s pulse hammered in her ears. “Elena’s dead. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Oh, I know she’s dead,” Carlos said smoothly, sliding his hands into his pockets as if he owned the penthouse.

“Tragic, really. But her death doesn’t erase the plans we made—or the problem you’ve inherited.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“The baby.” His tone was casual, almost amused, but the words sliced through her. “My baby. Elena was three months along when she died. She was going to pass it off as Alexander’s little miracle, lock down the Blackwood fortune, and then disappear with me.

Fifty million dollars. Argentina. Sunsets and champagne. That was our future.”

Sophia felt the world collapse inward. “You’re lying.”

He pulled out his phone, swiping until he found the photo: Elena grinning, holding a pregnancy test up to the camera. The date stamp mocked her. A week before Elena had even met Alexander.

“Does that look like a lie?” Carlos murmured.

Her knees weakened, and she gripped the back of the sofa to steady herself. The diary, the letters—it had all been true. Elena had been ready to gamble Alexander’s life, his heart, his legacy, for a man like Carlos.

Carlos leaned closer, his voice dropping. “So here’s the deal. Elena’s gone. But you’re here. You’re wearing her ring.

You’re living in her palace. The inheritance clause doesn’t care which twin is standing at Alexander’s side. Six months from now, fifty million will be sitting pretty in your account. You transfer it to me, and everyone walks away happy. Your mother gets the treatment she needs. You get to keep playing Mrs. Blackwood. I get the money I was promised.”

Sophia flinched at the mention of her mother. The hospital bills. The treatments that cost more than she could ever afford. Carlos had done his homework—of course he had.

“How in the the worl am I supposed to get pregnant, did you think about that? and I am not stealing from Alexander,” she said, her voice trembling.

Carlos’s smile sharpened. “You are smart, you will figure it out. nad i really do not care about how you go about it, don't foget you’re already stealing from him, sweetheart. You’re pretending to be his wife. Pretending to carry his child.

What’s a little money on top of that?”

Tears pricked Sophia’s eyes. “He’s… kind. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“Kind?” Carlos scoffed. “He married Elena for business. This is a corporate merger, not a fairy tale. Don’t fool yourself.”

He moved even closer, his breath warm against her ear. “Besides, Alexander can’t have children. Childhood illness. Permanent

damage. Elena told me everything. This pregnancy—my baby—was supposed to be his miracle. Do you understand now why he’s so happy? Why is he practically glowing? He thinks he’s finally a father. And you’re the one feeding him that lie.”

Sophia’s chest constricted. She thought of Alexander’s face at the reception, the way it had lit up when Victoria announced the pregnancy. The raw joy, the tenderness he tried to hide behind his controlled exterior. He wanted this baby more than anything.

And it wasn’t his.

Carlos straightened, satisfied with the devastation he’d wrought. “You’ll do as I say. Play Elena. Fake the pregnancy.

Wait for the inheritance. Transfer the money. If you don’t—” He tapped his phone. “I go to Alexander with everything. Photos. Messages. The works. Fraud, conspiracy, identity theft. You’ll lose everything, Sophia. And your mother will die waiting for

treatment you can’t afford.”

Sophia’s nails dug into her palms. He had her cornered. Every path led to ruin.

The elevator chimed.

Her blood froze. No. No, not now.

The doors slid open. Alexander Blackwood stepped inside the penthouse, his tie loosened, his expression weary from the day. But the

moment his gaze landed on Carlos, confusion—and something darker—flashed across his face.

His eyes flicked between Sophia and the stranger standing far too close to her.

“Who is this man, Elena?” Alexander’s voice was low, controlled, but dangerous. His gaze lingered on Carlos, narrowing. “And why

does he look at you like he knows you intimately?”

Sophia’s breath caught. Her world tilted into silence.

She had seconds to decide what to say—seconds before everything shattered.