The second the chapel doors shut behind us, I was yanked out of the warm, blinding blur of flashbulbs and rose petals.
And straight into… silence.
Thick, suffocating silence.
I turned toward my husband—I still couldn't believe I had one—and that's when I noticed it. The shift. The temperature drop. The… arctic energy radiating from the man beside me.
Gone was the soft-spoken, warm-eyed Aiden Thorne who used to send me cheeky texts during wedding planning. Who called me "Cal" like it was some inside joke. Who sent croissants from his favorite bakery on days I had early shoots.
Instead, I was standing next to a statue.
A very well-dressed, very handsome statue in a tailored navy tux, whose jaw was clenched so tight I thought his cheekbone might crack. His gaze wasn't warm. It wasn't even cold. It was… unreadable. Sharp.
Detached.
He didn't speak.
Not even a "We did it!" or a "Hey, nice vows" or—hell—even a "You've got lipstick on your tooth."
I cleared my throat.
He didn't look at me.
Okay then. Weird. But whatever. Maybe he was overwhelmed. Or dramatic. Or a Virgo.
But as the driver opened the car door for us, and I slid into the backseat of the town car—lace skirts puffing everywhere—I realized something else.
This man sitting beside me wasn't wearing the cologne Aiden wore.
He smelled like… sandalwood and storm clouds.
Not citrus and spice.
And I don't know why, but that small detail hit me like a punch to the gut.
I spent weeks memorizing every detail about the man I agreed to marry—for six months, anyway. I knew Aiden liked oat milk lattes. That he had a nervous laugh when he was lying. That he once sent me an entire mood board of tux colors and called it "fashion foreplay."
But the man beside me didn't look like someone who even knew what a mood board was.
My stomach twisted.
I stole a glance at him. His jaw was set, his fingers tapping against his thigh like they were trying to send Morse code.
Maybe it was the pressure. The cameras. The public nature of it all.
But something was very, very wrong.
When we arrived at the hotel suite—our honeymoon suite, by the way, which I had no intention of using for its intended purpose—I expected awkward small talk.
What I got was even weirder.
He opened the door, stepped aside to let me in, and said…
Nothing.
Not even a "After you, Mrs. Thorne."
I walked in and dropped my bouquet on the table with a dramatic sigh. "Sooo," I began, peeling off my heels, "how does it feel to be fake-married to a total stranger?"
Silence.
He walked to the minibar and poured himself a glass of water. Drank it in one go.
Okay, fine. I could play the passive-aggressive silence game too.
"I know I said I wouldn't read the contract," I said, flopping on the velvet couch and pulling my phone out, "but I'm pretty sure it said we had to pretend to like each other in public. Didn't say anything about brooding in private."
Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
He finally turned to face me, slowly. His eyes locked on mine. Dark, stormy, unreadable.
"You didn't read the contract?"
His voice was deep. Steady. But there was something sharp tucked inside it—like he was holding back a dozen things he wanted to say but wouldn't.
"Not all of it," I admitted, tossing my veil onto a lamp. "I skimmed the highlights. Don't date anyone else, show up to the charity galas, don't cause a scandal—blah blah blah. Be a picture-perfect fake wife for six months, and then poof. We part ways, no harm, no foul."
He exhaled slowly. Sat down in the armchair across from me, legs wide, hands steepled.
"You really should've read it."
Something in his tone made me sit up straight.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He hesitated.
Then finally, he looked me dead in the eye and said,
"I'm not Aiden."
My brain short-circuited.
I blinked. "I—sorry, what?"
He leaned back, elbows resting on the chair's arms like he was settling into a confession booth.
"I'm Adrian. Aiden's twin."
I laughed. Actually laughed. A short, breathless sound. "Funny."
"I'm not joking."
A pause.
"No, seriously. That's not funny."
"I'm not being funny, Callie."
I stared at him, my heart suddenly pounding so loud I thought he might hear it.
Adrian.
Not Aiden.
The wrong twin.
"But—but Aiden texted me this morning. He said he'd see me at the altar."
He nodded once, slowly. "That was me."
My mouth dropped open. "You catfished me into marrying you?!"
He flinched. "It's not like that—"
"It's exactly like that!"
I stood, suddenly hot all over. The dress was too tight. The room too small. The world tilted.
"You tricked me into marrying you! Why? What, was this some kind of sick family prank? You lost a bet?"
He stood too, but slowly. Controlled. His hands were up like he was talking down a bomb.
"It wasn't supposed to happen this way. Aiden—he bailed last minute. He ran. Grandma needed this wedding to happen, for the company, for the press—"
I scoffed. "So you just what? Slipped on his tux and hoped I wouldn't notice?!"
"I tried to call it off," he said, jaw clenched. "But Evelyn made it very clear this wedding was happening, one way or another. I was just… damage control."
I paced the room, heart racing. "You're not even the twin I agreed to marry."
"And I never wanted to be."
That stopped me.
He said it so quietly, so bitterly, it sounded like it cost him something just to admit it.
I stared at him.
And for the first time, I really looked.
The straighter posture. The way he didn't fidget. The more serious, careful eyes.
Not Aiden.
Adrian.
I'd heard of him, of course. The reclusive architect. The Thorne twin who avoided cameras like they were venomous snakes. The one who stayed away from fashion week and influencer galas and headlines.
But I never thought he would be the one I married.
And now, standing here in a dress that suddenly felt like a lie, I wasn't sure what was more terrifying—
That I'd been tricked…
Or that some small, treacherous part of me wasn't angry enough.
I didn't know this man.
But as his eyes locked on mine—quiet, stormy, and full of guilt—I had the distinct and dreadful feeling I was about to.
And falling for the wrong twin?
That was definitely not in the contract.