CHAPTER 6 – Doppelgänger
1430 Words
Ethan’s POV
The woman standing at the door was soaked from the storm, her coat clinging to her like a second skin. Her chest rose and fell as if she’d been running, but it was her voice—low, breathy, and trembling—that hollowed out my gut.
"I'm Isabella Lancaster," she said again, softer this time. "Who the hell are you?"
Behind me, the real Isabella—or the woman I thought was—stood frozen, her fingers still clenched around the glass of wine she hadn’t yet touched.
Silence crashed through the hallway like a wave. No one moved. My heart beat loud in my ears, each thud harder to ignore. I turned fully toward the stranger. Her face…
It was her face.
Same emerald eyes. Same high cheekbones. Same defiant tilt of the chin. But the version of her standing in the storm looked thinner, rougher around the edges, as if she’d been through hell. Scratches marred her cheek. Her lips were cracked. Her hair hung in wet strands, the color slightly duller than Isabella's fiery auburn—but close enough to rattle the senses.
"I said—" she began again, but my voice cut through her like a blade.
"That’s impossible."
She blinked.
"Because," I continued, eyes darting between the two of them, "Isabella Lancaster is already here. She’s my wife."
The real Isabella finally moved, stepping forward with slow, deliberate grace. Her voice, when it came, was sharper than ice.
"This is a sick joke. Who sent you?"
But the woman didn’t flinch. "You stole my name," she said, her voice cracking. "And he’s not your husband."
My instincts kicked in. I stepped in front of Isabella—my Isabella—shielding her with my body. Not because I didn’t think she could defend herself, but because every muscle in me screamed something was deeply wrong.
The guards were rushing in behind her now. Thomas, the head of security, had a gun drawn.
"Sir," he said to me. "She breached the gate. No ID, no vehicle. Just appeared in the storm."
"I didn’t breach anything," the woman snarled. "This is my home."
My pulse throbbed. I looked back to the Isabella behind me, who now stared at the intruder not with confusion, but growing fear. Not of her… but of recognition.
"Take her to the east wing guest room," Isabella said suddenly. Her voice was calm, but her eyes told another story. "And keep her there under guard. No one else sees her until I say so."
"Isabella—" I turned to her.
"Not now," she snapped. "We’ll talk after she’s secure."
The woman didn’t fight as the guards surrounded her. She didn’t scream or resist. She just locked her eyes on mine—and whispered something that chilled me to the core.
"He's not who you think he is either."
Once the woman was out of sight, Isabella turned her back to the hallway and walked swiftly into the sitting room, her heels clicking against the marble floor like gunshots in a cathedral.
I followed her in silence, tension stretched like wire between us. She didn't sit. Neither did I.
"What the hell is going on?" I asked.
She turned slowly, arms folded, eyes unreadable. "That’s what I intend to find out."
I moved closer. "She knew your name. She looks just like you."
"No, she doesn’t." Her voice faltered for a moment, like she wasn’t sure whether to lie or admit something terrifying. "There are similarities, but she's not me."
"Isabella." I stepped forward, lowering my voice. "You’re not the kind of woman who gets spooked easily. But you're scared right now. Who is she?"
She looked away for a moment, then exhaled, a long, sharp breath. “I don’t know.”
That was a lie.
I caught her wrist gently before she could walk away. “Don’t lie to me.”
Her eyes snapped back to mine. “Don’t forget why you’re here, Ethan. You’re my substitute husband. Nothing more.”
I clenched my jaw. “You think I forgot? Because trust me, I never had the luxury of forgetting for even a second.”
We stood there for a beat—her defiance crackling like fire, my frustration pressing against the walls of my chest. And underneath it all... something else. Something unspoken.
“I’ll talk to her,” I said.
“No.” Her answer was instant, sharp.
“I need answers, Isabella. She said I’m not who you think I am.”
“That’s exactly why you can’t,” she whispered. “Not yet.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What does that mean?”
But she only turned away again. “Give me until morning. I’ll speak to her first.”
The storm outside calmed by midnight, but inside me, the storm only grew.
I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying the look on the woman’s face—the conviction in her eyes. The words she’d said.
He’s not who you think he is either.
Was she crazy? A con artist? A clone?
Clone.
The word felt ridiculous... but then again, so had secret marriages, corporate spies, and mysterious disappearances two months ago.
I walked to the east wing around 3 a.m., when most of the estate was asleep. The guards posted outside the guest room glanced at me uneasily.
"She hasn’t said a word since we brought her in, sir," Thomas said quietly.
“I won’t go in. Just... watch the door.”
I stood across the hall, staring at the locked door behind which a woman with Isabella’s face slept—or waited. My thoughts spun in circles, knotting tighter by the second.
Who was I?
Who was she?
And why did I feel like everything I believed about my life was starting to unravel?
By sunrise, I hadn’t slept a single minute.
I was still in the east corridor when Isabella arrived, dressed in a crisp white blouse and black trousers, her hair pulled into a tight chignon. Her expression was unreadable, but the stiff set of her shoulders gave her away.
“I told you to stay out of this,” she said softly as she reached the door.
“I didn’t go in,” I replied. “Didn’t have to.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Then why are you here?”
“Because I can’t protect you if I don’t know what I’m protecting you from.”
For a moment, her mask slipped. A flicker of something passed across her features—fear, maybe. Then she looked away.
“I’ll be done in ten minutes.”
She stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind her.
I pressed myself against the wall, out of view of the guards, and listened.
There was a pause—then Isabella’s voice, cold and sharp.
“Who are you really?”
The woman answered softly, but I could still hear her.
“I told you. I’m Isabella Lancaster.”
“You’re not. I am.”
“No. You’re living my life. You’re in my house. Wearing my name. I have proof.”
“Then why now?” Isabella snapped. “Why come forward now?”
A beat of silence.
“Because I was drugged. Hidden away. You knew. You were part of it.”
My stomach twisted.
Isabella didn’t respond immediately. Then—
“I’m not part of anything. But if you’re lying, I’ll bury you so deep no one will ever find you again.”
The woman laughed—a broken, bitter sound.
“That’s what he said.”
He?
I moved closer, heart hammering.
Isabella again: “Who?”
Another pause.
“Your father.”
A crash—something heavy slamming into the wall. Then footsteps, fast.
I backed up just in time as Isabella stormed out, her face pale and jaw clenched. She saw me and froze.
“You were listening.”
“She mentioned your father,” I said quietly. “And mine.”
Something dark flickered behind her eyes. “That’s not possible.”
But she didn’t say it wasn’t true.
I followed her down the hall. “What happened, Isabella? Why would she accuse your father of hiding her? And what does this have to do with me?”
She stopped. Turned slowly.
“You want the truth?” she whispered.
I nodded.
Her lips parted. “Then start with the box under my mother’s piano. And pray it doesn’t destroy everything.”
She walked away.
I stood there in the hallway, shaken.
There was a box?
Under the piano?
- Writer
