The bride's stand-In

I sank onto my worn-out bed, feeling the ache deep in my bones. After cleaning the mansion for the third time today alongside the other maids, I could hardly keep my eyes open. My stepmother, always ready to find another speck of dust, didn't seem to care that I, too, was Mr Dean Morgan's daughter. To her, I was only a maid's daughter—a reminder of the scandal she'd rather forget. My mother was once a maid here, but then she and my father crossed a line, and I was the result.

When I was born, my mother threatened to go to the press. She was ready to bring the truth to the world if he didn't acknowledge me. So he took me in, reluctantly. But days later, my mother vanished, as if she'd never existed at all.

Growing up here was anything but normal. I went to school, but even there, Diane and her friends made my life miserable. Diane, my beautiful, cruel half-sister with her long black hair, green eyes that sparkled with mischief, and a body that looked sculpted by an artist. She was set to inherit everything, and I, it seemed, was here to serve her.

Recently, though, my father's company, Morgan Aircraft Manufacturing, has been struggling. He'd been irritable, pacing and muttering about losses. But just last night, he'd come home, an odd spark in his eye, saying someone was interested in investing. They'd been invited to dinner tonight. Maybe that's why my stepmother, for once, had given me responsibility—as the "head maid" for the event. Not that I was paid for it, of course. No, that would be too generous.

I cleaned, polished, and dusted every corner until the whole place gleamed. Finally, I escaped to my tiny room, the one place they let me call mine—if you could even call it that. It was small, with barely enough room to turn around, tucked away in the mansion's far wing. My stepmother insisted I couldn't live in the servants' quarters like the other maids because, technically, I was "family." So instead, I was shoved into the ugliest, most neglected part of the house.

I went to my cramped bathroom and washed away the day's exhaustion, watching the dirt swirl down the drain. I pulled on a plain blouse and jeans—the only clothes I owned. Diane refused to let me have her hand-me-downs; she'd rather donate them or throw them away than see me wear them.

I looked at myself in the mirror, trying to remind myself not to care. But Diane and her mother had a way of getting under my skin, flashing their lives of luxury right in front of me. Sometimes, the pain of it all felt unbearable, like a stone lodged in my chest. But over time, I'd learned to live with it.

...

Night had fallen, and everyone was gathered in the grand hall on the third floor. My stepmother had meticulously orchestrated this evening—an opportunity to secure investors for the company, and perhaps, for her, a chance to remind everyone who really ran things. I stood as I always did, in the middle. My family stood ahead, maids behind, while I lingered somewhere in-between, blending into neither.

Diane sparkled in an elegant dress, a vision of poise and ambition. My brother looked as laid-back as ever in his hoodie and joggers, as if this were just another casual night. My father wore an expression I couldn't read, but his sharp suit and stiff posture told me how much was riding on this night. My stepmother, well... she was in her element, all smiles and graceful movements, practically basking in the spotlight.

Outside, sleek black cars pulled up in line, each as immaculate and intimidating as the last. The maids murmured, unable to contain their awe, and even I felt a sense of thrill. But this wasn't the first time I'd seen expensive cars roll through these gates. High-profile guests were no strangers here, usually for Diane's sake. Agencies and designers often approached her with lucrative offers, but she always turned them down, reminding everyone that her future lay with the family business. She was the heir.

The men in black suits stepped out, six in total, and immediately I noticed the man at the center—a composed, authoritative figure with a piercing gaze. My father approached them, tension clear in his steps as his eyes scanned the group. "Excuse me, where's Mr. Volkov?"

A flicker of surprise went through me. Mr. Volkov was almost a myth—an enigmatic billionaire whose wealth and power were whispered about all over New York. But no one had actually seen him, and rumors abounded that he was confined to a wheelchair. Apparently, the rumors were true.

The man in the center took a step forward and gave a respectful nod. "I'm Adam Smith, Mr. Volkow's representative. He won't be joining us tonight, but I am authorized to act on his behalf."

My stepmother's face lit up, and she moved forward, exuding charm. "Of course, Mr. Smith! Right this way, please. Dinner is waiting." She shot me a glance over her shoulder. "Eva, set the table."

I nodded, fixing a polite smile. "Yes, ma'am." Inside, I was already drained, having spent the entire day preparing the house. Still, I kept my composure as we all moved into the dining room.

As they settled around the table, I took my usual position at the side, close enough to be present but far enough to avoid suspicion. Nobody knew I was my father's daughter—outside the family and the staff, I was just another helper. That was how they preferred it. Dinner began, and for a while, everything seemed to flow smoothly. Small talk, polite laughter, clinking glasses.

Then, at one point, Mr. Smith took a document from his briefcase. Leaning slightly toward my father, he spoke low and steady, in a voice that was almost a murmur. The words were barely audible where I stood, but whatever he said seemed to shift the air in the room. I couldn't make out the details, only the somber, weighty tone of his voice as he outlined Mr. Volkov's conditions.

Diane, sitting across from him, went pale. Her hands froze, fork and knife suspended midair, and then, abruptly, she dropped them, the clatter echoing through the room. She looked as if she'd been slapped.

"No!" she burst out, voice high and sharp, shattering the quiet.