His Dead Wife's Twin

Chapter 8

Elena either can’t tell or just chooses to ignore it. “Really? When?”

“Um… tonight.” Peter says he’ll call, but hasn’t yet. “So, yeah, I’m already moving on.”

“Oh,” she sighs like it’s the biggest damn relief, clutching her chest. “I thought we were gonna be rivals for life. What a relief. Oh my God, Ray, do you know what I was thinking the whole ride here? About having to face you, about how I’d talk to you so we could fix this. Thanks for making it easy.”

Her grin blinds me, and honestly, it pisses me off more than it should, but I keep my face deadpan, muscles relaxed. It’s a skill, learned right here in this house where she’s always the star, and I’m just the extra with fewer lines every damn day, till all I do is sigh and look away.

“What if it had been me?”

The words slip out before I can stop them, rebellious, unchecked. My heart quickens, pounding against my ribs, but I don’t take them back. I don’t meet Elena’s eyes, but I don’t retreat either.

“What if Noah had chosen me instead of you? What if I was the bride and you were the bridesmaid?” My gaze lifts, and I feel the unwanted sting of tears pooling against my will. “What if you were the one crying on his doorstep as he told you he never loved you? What then?”

A shaky breath pulls through my chest as I wait, wait for something real, something weighty.

Elena stares, momentarily stunned. But then, laughter.

I’m standing here, baring something raw, something rare, something that has never once left my lips, and my sister laughs. She swats my shoulder playfully, shaking her head as if I’ve said something ridiculous. “What are you saying? You know Noah has always loved me. It could never have been you, Ray.”

She softens the words with a gentle smile, like that will make them hurt less. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you, but that’s life, right?”

That’s when I understand.

Elena has always stood up for me. She calls me her favorite person. But in her eyes, I am still just an extension of her, just the shadow beside her light.

Just the bridge that connects her to Noah.

And nothing more.

Without a word, I yank the door open and step into the hallway. Laughter spills from the living room, warm, familiar. I don’t need to look to know that Noah is there, charming my mom with some old story, weaving himself deeper into her good graces.

"Oh, hey, Ray."

I don’t respond. I keep walking, eyes fixed ahead, feet carrying me toward the front door.

"Esmeray, Noah is talking to you. Can you not be so rude?"

The tone stops me, almost. My muscles tense, instinct pulling me back, urging me to bow my head, to submit, to do as I’ve always done. But something inside me holds firm, and I keep moving.

"What’s wrong, sweetheart?" Dad’s voice is softer, concerned.

That’s the one that does it. My fingers tighten around the handle, my steps faltering.

"Esmeray Morales, I did not raise you to be so disrespectful."

Mom stands there, hair twisted into a bun, hands planted on her waist, firm, expectant. Noah blinks, confused, and from the staircase, Elena begins descending, catching the tension in the air.

"Sorry," I mutter, barely looking up. "I’m just distracted."

"Where are you going?" Noah asks, and I know, he knows. He understands what he’s done and that I am angry. He moves toward me, but I’m already opening the door.

"Out," I say. "Just out. Hope you have a nice stay, Noah."

I almost add something extra, a courtesy, something syrupy and polite, just to drive the point home, but Mom’s stare is sharp enough to silence the impulse.

"Hey," Noah starts after me, but I step forward without hesitation.

"Don’t follow me," I tell him.

I shut the door with deliberate calm.

But for Noah, it might as well have slammed.