Keila’s POV

Three years of marriage.

Three years of living in the shell of another woman.

Three years of being loved in public and forgotten in private.

We are the couple everyone envies. Kelly and Keila—the power pair. Our matching designer fits are always the talk of the event. Red carpet-ready. Magazine spreads. Carefully curated Instagram photos with coordinated captions. People think we’re perfect.

But perfection is an illusion I’ve been selling for three long years.

Behind the velvet curtains and polite kisses lies a silence so loud it could choke you.

He still loves her.

Even in her absence, he honors her. Protects her memory like a fragile glass sculpture.

And me? I’m the one who walked into a wedding she ran away from. The one who saved him from disgrace—and somehow became the disgrace he won’t look at.

But still, I try.

Today is our anniversary.

I made his favorite meal. Candles lit. Table set for two. His seat waiting, like I do. I even wore the red silk dress he once paused to admire on someone else, only to say, “That would look good on you too.” A backhanded compliment I’ve turned into a memory.

I curled my hair. Lined my eyes. Painted on a smile.

Because maybe tonight would be different.

I glance at the clock. Almost noon.

Then the door creaks open, and the smell hits me before he does. Whiskey.

He stumbles in. Unshaven. Untucked. Unbothered.

“Kelly?” I ask softly, stepping forward.

He doesn’t answer. Just crashes onto the couch like he’s survived something I haven’t.

Then, in a breath I wasn’t supposed to hear, he mutters, “Amelia…”

Her name, like a lullaby. A reflex. A habit.

My chest tightens. I freeze.

“It’s me,” I say quietly. “Keila. Your wife.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“I made lunch,” I try again, walking over. “Your favorite. I thought we could eat together. Talk. Just the two of us.”

He lets out a dry laugh, slumped into the cushions. “Talk about what? The years we’ve wasted pretending?”

I bite down the hurt.

“Pretending?” I echo. “You call this pretending?”

“What else is it?” he says, eyes barely open. “We play house. We take pictures. You smile. I nod. Everyone claps. Then we come home and don’t even know how to breathe in the same room.”

“That’s not fair, Kelly,” I whisper. “I’ve tried. I’ve done everything to make this work.”

He scoffs. “Like what?”

I pause. My heart pounding.

“I spent a month in culinary school just to cook better for you,” I say slowly. “Not because I love cooking—I don’t. I hate it. But you once said Amelia could make anything taste like comfort, and I thought maybe… maybe if I learned, you’d stop comparing us.”

He finally opens his eyes and stares at me. But he doesn’t say a word.

“I’m here, Kelly,” I continue. “I show up. Every day. I sit beside you in church, at galas, at family dinners. I take the pictures. I wear the name. I carry the shame. And you still look through me.”

Silence.

“I saved you,” I press on, voice cracking. “When she didn’t show up, your world was falling apart. Your mother was panicking, guests were whispering. I put on the dress. I walked down that aisle. I turned your humiliation into a wedding.”

“You shouldn’t have,” he says flatly.

“What?”

“We should’ve waited. She would’ve come.”

My heart stumbles.

“You really believe that?”

“I know her,” he says, eyes hard now. “Something happened. Amelia didn’t just vanish.”

I look away.

He doesn’t know. Still doesn’t know. And I’m not going to be the one to tell him.

“You think I don’t hurt too?” I whisper. “Do you know what it’s like to live in someone’s shadow for three years? To be measured against a ghost? To lie awake every night wondering what you’d say if she walked through that door?”

He stands now. Slowly. Wobbly.

“You think this is love, Keila?” he asks. “You think this… arrangement means something?”

“I’m your wife,” I snap. “I stood beside you when she disappeared.”

“You stood beside me because you wanted the spotlight,” he shoots back. “You didn’t marry me out of love—you married me out of opportunity.”

I gasp, like he’s slapped me.

“You think I married you for clout?”

“You married me because it was convenient. Because my mother approved. Because you saw a throne without a queen.”

“And you think I stayed for the throne?” I step closer, trembling. “I stayed through cold nights. I stayed when your friends pitied me. I stayed when your family asked when we’d finally act like a couple. I stayed when my own mother said a baby would fix things.”

He’s breathing heavily now.

“She said maybe if I gave you a child, you’d love me.”

He looks away.

“She said maybe that’s what you’ve been waiting for. That no man ignores the mother of his child.”

The silence that follows is heavy and jagged.

I reach for my final card.

“I’m pregnant.”

He turns sharply.

“What?”

“I’m pregnant, Kelly,” I say again, steadier this time. “I’m carrying your child.”

For the first time in three years, he’s sober.

For the first time… he’s speechless.

And for the first time—I feel like I might finally have something that Amelia never did.