I always imagined my wedding would smell like roses, not panic.
But here I was, standing under an arch of overpriced hydrangeas, sweating through silk chiffon and clutching a bouquet that cost more than my camera gear. The violinist was playing something soft and romantic in the background—though my brain only registered it as static panic noise. My palms were clammy. My heart was galloping like a caffeinated squirrel. And the man I was about to marry?
Yeah. I hadn't even looked him in the eye yet.
"Smile," hissed Evelyn Thorne, aka the family matriarch-slash-marriage puppet master, as she adjusted my veil for the third time. "There are photographers."
Of course there were. This wasn't just a wedding—it was a PR cover-up with better lighting.
I offered a weak grin to the rows of rich strangers in designer suits, all of whom were here to witness what they thought was a happy union between America's golden fashion influencer and his new "humble" wife. If only they knew.
Six months ago, I was drowning in my late dad's debts, fighting off a charming but toxic ex, and trying to keep my photography business from collapsing. Then Evelyn walked in, offering me a lifeline with a Tiffany-blue ribbon: marry her grandson, pretend it's love, and walk away clean with a fresh start.
No strings. No feelings. Just six months of pretending.
Simple.
Until the man who showed up at the altar didn't look like the fiancé I'd met.
Aiden Thorne—at least the Aiden I remembered—was all charming smiles, sparkling eyes, and cologne that made me question my morals. The man standing across from me now?
Cold. Silent. And absolutely not sparkling.
Sure, the resemblance was there. Tall, sharp jawline, same deep-set gray eyes. But his posture was stiffer. His expression unreadable. And when he finally glanced at me, it wasn't with flirty mischief.
It was like he was memorizing my soul. Dissecting it.
Judging it.
What the actual hell?
"Dearly beloved," the officiant began, his voice echoing across the fancy garden venue, "we are gathered here today…"
I barely heard the rest. My thoughts were a whirlwind of confusion and alarm.
Maybe he's nervous? Or maybe he's had a personality transplant? Was this… cold feet?
My eyes flicked to Nari in the front row—my best friend, my ride-or-die chaos manager. She gave me a subtle thumbs-up, mouthing, You've got this. Easy for her to say—she wasn't about to legally bind herself to a stranger with cheekbones sharp enough to slice a lemon.
When the vows started, I kept it light. Breezy. I even slipped in a joke about lighting and wedding hashtags, earning a polite chuckle from the crowd.
Then it was his turn.
He didn't blink.
Didn't smile.
Didn't even hesitate as he repeated the words like a man signing a contract under duress.
"I, Aiden Thorne, take you, Callie Hart, to be my lawfully wedded wife…"
I stiffened. Something in his voice—low, steady, almost… haunted—twisted in my stomach.
It felt wrong.
Too rehearsed. Too flat. Too not Aiden.
The crowd erupted into applause. Someone threw confetti. The violinist hit a crescendo. And just like that, it was done.
"I now pronounce you husband and wife," the officiant declared.
I turned to face him. My new husband.
He leaned in.
Not for a kiss. No. He pressed his lips to my cheek—barely—and whispered:
"Don't ask questions. Not here."
What?
I blinked, stunned.
Not here?
Before I could respond, he took my hand and guided me down the aisle, perfectly composed like the world's most attractive robot groom. Cameras flashed. Guests cheered. Evelyn dabbed at the corner of her eye, pretending to cry.
And me?
I felt like I'd just walked into a trap I didn't know existed.
We didn't speak as we posed for photos in front of the fountain. Or while we cut the three-tiered lemon cake. Or during our first dance, where his hands hovered like I was made of glass and he barely met my gaze.
I tried. I really did.
"You okay?" I asked quietly, somewhere between the waltz and the awkward side step.
His lips twitched. Not a smile—more like a grimace pretending to be polite. "Fine."
"You don't seem fine."
"Neither do you," he said flatly.
Wow. Romance was alive and thriving.
By the time the reception ended and we slipped into the sleek black car waiting to take us to the Thorne family penthouse, I couldn't hold it in any longer.
"What is going on?" I hissed as the car doors shut.
Silence.
I turned to him fully, frustration bubbling in my chest. "You've been acting weird all day. You're not even pretending to like me. You didn't even kiss me!"
He exhaled slowly. Turned to face me. And said something that made my blood run cold:
"Because I'm not Aiden."
My brain short-circuited.
"What?"
He ran a hand through his dark hair. "I'm Adrian. His twin."
I laughed. Because what else do you do when the floor drops out from under your sanity?
"Good one. Seriously. What's going on?"
He didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
"I'm not joking."
Silence stretched.
My pulse thundered in my ears. "You're telling me… I just married the wrong twin?"
He nodded.
Calm. Cold. Like he hadn't just upended my entire reality.
"But—how? Why? Where the hell is Aiden?!"
"That's not important right now."
"Not important?!" My voice shot up. "I just said vows to the wrong freaking man!"
He turned his gaze out the window, jaw tight. "You agreed to a contract. Six months. Pretend to be married. That hasn't changed."
"No," I snapped. "That contract was with Aiden. You're not him."
He finally looked at me then—really looked at me—and something flickered behind his eyes. Not guilt. Not remorse. Something softer. Sadder.
"You were never supposed to fall for him anyway."
I stared at him, heart pounding. "What makes you think I did?"
He didn't answer.
I turned away, pressing my forehead to the cool glass. The city lights blurred outside, glittering and false.
I had just married a stranger.
Not Aiden Thorne.
Not the charming twin I'd agreed to fake a life with.
But the wrong brother.
And the worst part?
I had a sinking feeling I was already in too deep.
He wasn't the man I was supposed to love.
So why did every glance feel like a promise waiting to break me?