Seven days.

That was how long it had been since we lowered the empty casket into the ground.

I stood before the granite headstone, the chill of the overcast sky seeping through my black dress. My fingers crushed the stems of the white roses. Thorns bit into my skin, but the sting felt distant.

"Doris, we need to go." Alexander touched my elbow gently.

"It's been a week, Alex," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Why does it still feel like the plane went down yesterday?"

"Because you loved him," he said softly. "But standing out here in the cold won't bring him back."

I dropped the roses onto the freshly turned soil. Sorensen Wiles. The golden boy of the Wiles family. The heir everyone envied. And for five years, my perfect husband.

"You should be at the office," I told Alexander, refusing to meet his gaze. "You've missed three board meetings this week alone."

"The company will survive," he replied, his tone steady.

"You're his best friend, not my babysitter. We graduated college together, Alex. You don't owe me this."

"I'm not doing it out of obligation." Alexander stepped in front of me, forcing me to look at him. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes. He had canceled every flight, every negotiation, just to handle the funeral arrangements I was too broken to manage.

The raw concern in his expression made my chest ache. I felt suffocated by his kindness. I had nothing left to give anyone, let alone the man who had abandoned his own life to keep me afloat.

"I'm fine," I lied, swaying on my feet.

The cemetery spun. Black spots danced across my vision.

Alexander caught my waist before my knees hit the grass. "You're burning up. I'm taking you to the hospital."

"No, I just need to sit down—"

"I'm not asking, Doris."

The fluorescent lights of the emergency clinic buzzed overhead, a harsh contrast to the gray morning outside.

"Her immune system is completely compromised," Dr. Miller told Alexander, bypassing me entirely. "Extreme grief and physical exhaustion have taken a massive toll."

"What does she need?" Alexander asked.

"Sleep. Real food. I'll prescribe some vitamins, but if she doesn't keep water down by tonight, bring her back for IV fluids."

I stared at the blank wall of the examination room. "I can hear you both."

Alexander sighed, turning to me. "Then listen to him. Sorensen is gone. You're still here."

"I'll try," I muttered, sliding off the exam table. My legs felt like lead.

"Wait right here," Alexander instructed, grabbing his car keys. "I'm going to pull the car around to the front entrance. Do not move."

He walked out, leaving me alone in the sterile room. A terrible thirst clawed at my throat. I didn't want to wait. I just wanted a cup of water from the fountain in the hall.

I pushed the door open and wandered down the corridor.

Passing the maternity ward, I froze.

A tall man stood near the elevator bank. He had broad shoulders clad in a tailored wool coat. The exact tilt of his head. The familiar line of his jaw.

My heart violently slammed against my ribs.

He turned his face to the side, and the air completely vanished from my lungs.

It was Sorensen.

He was gently rubbing the lower back of a heavily pregnant blonde woman. She leaned into his chest, laughing at something he said.

"Sorensen?" The name tore from my throat before I could stop it.

I sprinted forward. My hands reached out, grabbing his forearm. The thick fabric of his coat felt real. The solid muscle beneath it felt real.

"You're alive." The words tumbled out of my mouth in a frantic rush. "Oh my god, you're alive. How are you here?"

He looked down at my fingers gripping his sleeve. A muscle feathered in his jaw.

"Excuse me?" he asked.

The voice sent a chill straight down my spine. It was flat. Empty.

"It's me," I pleaded, stepping into his line of sight. "Doris. Your wife."

The blonde woman swatted my hand away with surprising force. "Back off, crazy lady. Don't touch my husband."

"Husband?" I stared at her swelling belly, then back at the man I had buried exactly seven days ago. "Stop playing around. Please. The plane crash—"

"I don't know who you are," the man interrupted, his tone laced with heavy annoyance. "But you need to step back."

Before I could scream, familiar hands clamped onto my shoulders. Alexander yanked me backward.

"I am so sorry," Alexander told the couple, his grip tightening on me to prevent me from lunging again. "My friend recently lost someone. You bear a striking resemblance to her late husband."

"Keep her locked up, then," the blonde woman scoffed, rubbing her stomach protectively.

The man didn't say another word. He didn't even cast a second glance my way. He simply placed a hand on the woman's waist and guided her into the open elevator.

The metal doors slid shut.

"Let me go!" I fought against Alexander, hitting his chest. "That was him, Alex! You saw him!"

"Doris, stop!" Alexander spun me around, gripping my arms. "Sorensen died in a plane crash. We identified the belongings. We held the funeral."

"I know what I saw!" I yelled, tears finally spilling over my eyelashes.

"You saw a stranger," he insisted, his voice strained. "Doppelgangers exist. Your mind is playing tricks on you because you haven't slept in a week."

I slumped against the wall, burying my face in my hands.

Was I losing my mind? The coldness in that man's eyes had been entirely foreign. Sorensen had never looked at me like that.

"Stay right here on this bench," Alexander commanded, pointing a stern finger at me. "I'll go get your discharge papers from the front desk. I mean it, Doris. Do not move."

I nodded, too drained to fight him anymore.

He jogged down the hall. I stared at the linoleum floor, trying to regulate my breathing.

"Mrs. Wiles?"

A nurse walked toward me, holding a printed sheet of paper. "You left your bloodwork results in the exam room."

I took the paper, murmuring a quick thanks.

I needed to find a trash can for the useless printout. I dragged my feet down the adjacent hallway, turning the corner into the VIP maternity wing.

The corridor was dead silent.

Room 402 had its door cracked open just an inch.

A familiar, high-pitched giggle drifted out into the quiet space.

"Sorensen, you're terrible."

The name paralyzed me.

My blood turned to ice. I crept closer, pressing my shoulder flat against the wall. Through the narrow gap in the doorway, I peered inside.

The blonde woman from the elevator sat on the edge of the hospital bed. The man—my husband—knelt on the floor in front of her, carefully unlacing her shoes.

"You went to such extremes," the woman teased, running her manicured fingers through his dark hair. "Faking a plane crash just to be with me for the birth."

My stomach violently heaved.

"Won't Doris be mad if she finds out?" she asked, a cruel smile playing on her lips.

I squeezed my eyes shut. I prayed for a stranger's voice to answer. I prayed for Alexander to be right.

"Don't overthink it."

The deep, resonant baritone belonged to the man who had whispered vows into my ear five years ago. There was no coldness now. It was the exact, tender tone he used to reserve only for me.

"Our child is what matters most," Sorensen continued, pressing a soft kiss to her swollen stomach. "I handled the Wiles family. The rest is just noise."

Noise.

My grief. My tears. The empty casket. It was all just noise to him.

My fingers went completely slack.

The medical report slipped from my hand. It fluttered through the air, hitting the hallway floor with a sharp slap.

Inside the room, Sorensen's head snapped up. His dark eyes locked directly onto the crack in the door.

I bolted from the maternity ward, ignoring the sharp slap of my shoes against the linoleum. The medical report lay abandoned on the floor behind me. I pushed through the heavy glass doors and stumbled into the gray light of the parking garage.

"Running away so soon?"

I spun around. Vivian leaned against a concrete pillar near the payment kiosk. Her smug smile twisted my stomach into knots.

"Stay away from me," I warned, backing toward my car.

She stepped forward, proudly stroking her swollen stomach. "Eight months. He is a kicker, just like his father."

"My husband died a week ago."

"Your husband faked a fiery crash so he could finally be a real father." Vivian pulled a phone from her designer purse and shoved the screen in my face. "Look at it."

I squeezed my eyes shut.

"Open them, Doris!" she snapped.

I forced my gaze to the glowing screen. Sorensen kissing her cheek on a sunny beach. Sorensen holding a string of ultrasound printouts. Sorensen assembling a crib in a brightly lit nursery.

"He chose us," Vivian said, her tone dripping with mock pity. "He has been by my side for three years. You were just a corporate duty."

I did not argue. The betrayal burned away my tears, leaving only a white-hot fury. I got into my sedan, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. When Vivian climbed into a black SUV, I put my car in drive and followed her.

We wound through the hills, finally stopping at a gated villa in Oak Creek. She left the front door wide open.

I marched right inside.

Sorensen stood by the marble kitchen island, pouring scotch into a crystal glass.

"You left the gate code on default again, Viv—" He froze, spotting me in the foyer.

"Five years," I said. My voice did not shake. "You let me bury an empty box."

He set the glass down. No apology crossed his face. Just mild irritation. "You should not have followed her."

"Why, Sorensen? Why not just ask for a divorce?"

"And lose half my shares in the Wiles empire?" He scoffed, leaning against the counter. "My family would have crucified me for leaving a strategic alliance for a pregnant mistress. This was cleaner."

"Cleaner?" I took a step closer, my nails digging into my palms. "You destroyed my life. You let me plan your funeral!"

"I gave you the Wiles name. I gave you wealth." He crossed his arms, his dark eyes entirely devoid of warmth. "Vivian gives me a real family. I was suffocating in that sterile mansion with you."

I slapped him. Hard.

His jaw shifted. He did not even flinch. "Get it out of your system, Doris. Then go home."

"I am calling the police. I am telling the board everything."

"No, you will not." His tone dropped, turning sharp and commanding. "If the world finds out I am alive, the Wiles stock plummets. Your shares become worthless. Play the grieving widow, or you lose everything too."

I stared at the man I thought I knew. He was a complete stranger.

I turned on my heel and walked out.

The drive back to the estate passed in a blur of numb disbelief. When I unlocked my front door, Mr. Gable waited in my living room. Sorensen's personal attorney held a thick leather binder against his chest.

"Mrs. Wiles. I need to read the updated will."

"Updated?" I asked, collapsing onto the velvet sofa.

"Mr. Wiles made changes two weeks before the flight." Gable adjusted his glasses, avoiding my gaze. "The house remains yours. However, his entire private portfolio, all liquid assets, and his offshore accounts have been transferred."

"To whom?"

"An anonymous beneficiary."

Vivian. He had funded his new life with the money we built together.

Before I could respond, my phone vibrated on the coffee table. Then it buzzed again. And again.

I picked it up. Dozens of notifications flooded the screen.

*Wiles Heir Driven to Despair by Spendthrift Wife?*

*Sources Say Doris Wiles Drained Husband's Accounts Before Fatal Crash.*

"What is this?" I muttered, scrolling through the vicious headlines.

"The board is calling for an emergency vote to strip your voting rights," Gable said, packing up his briefcase with hurried movements. "I suggest you hire a crisis manager."

My phone chimed with a text message from my uncle. *Do not contact us. You have ruined the family name.*

Gable hurried out the front door. I walked to the bay window. News vans were already blocking my driveway. Reporters swarmed the iron gates, their camera flashes blinding in the fading daylight.

A rock smashed through the glass pane. Shards scattered across the Persian rug, narrowly missing my feet.

"Doris!"

Alexander shoved through my front door, violently brushing glass off his suit jacket. "Grab your coat. We are leaving right now."

"They think I killed him, Alex. They think I drove him to suicide."

"Do not read the articles." He grabbed my wrist, pulling me toward the back exit. "My car is in the alley. Move."

We escaped through the servant's corridor. Alexander drove recklessly, weaving through backstreets until we reached his downtown penthouse. He guided me to the plush sofa and handed me a mug of hot tea.

"Drink that. I need to make some calls and handle this PR nightmare." He walked out of the room, already dialing a number on his cell phone.

I sat alone in the quiet apartment. My phone battery flashed red. I needed a charger.

I stepped into the hallway and pushed open the heavy oak door to Alexander's study. The room smelled of old paper and bitter espresso. A single desk lamp illuminated his mahogany workspace.

I reached for a white charging cable draped across the desk.

My hand brushed against a thick manila folder. The bold, stamped letters on the cover caught my eye.

*CONFIDENTIAL: Aviation Crash Investigation - Flight 209.*

Flight 209. Sorensen's plane.

I flipped the cover open.

The first page was not a standard government report. It was a private flight manifest. Sorensen's name was crossed out in red ink. Next to it, a handwritten note in Alexander's familiar, messy scrawl: *Extraction successful. Target relocated.*

My blood turned to ice.

The mug slipped from my fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor.

Alexander knew.

"What is this?" I slammed the manila folder onto the mahogany desk.

Alexander stepped into the study, his eyes darting to the scattered papers. He didn't flinch. He didn't look surprised.

"You knew." My voice shook, but I forced my shoulders back. "You helped him fake the crash."

"Doris, put the file down."

"Answer me, Alex!" I grabbed the private flight manifest, shoving it toward his chest. "Extraction successful? Target relocated? You let me bury an empty box!"

He gently pushed my hand away. "It is complicated. Now isn't the time to explain."

"Not the time?" I laughed, the sound harsh and entirely foreign to my own ears. "I spent a week crying on your shoulder. You planned a funeral for a man you actively hid!"

"I was protecting you," he said softly.

"You were managing me." I backed away, staring at the man I thought was my closest friend. "You stood next to me at the cemetery. You watched me break down over a pile of dirt, knowing Sorensen was playing house with his pregnant mistress."

"There are things in motion you do not understand," Alexander insisted, taking a step toward me. "Sorensen is dangerous right now. I kept you in the dark for your own good."

"Explain it to me, then! Right now."

"Not yet." He crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. "It isn't safe."

"Safe?" I scoffed, throwing the manifest onto the floor. "Your silence is just as twisted as his lies. Your pity makes me sick. Do not ever contact me again."

I walked out of the apartment, ignoring his voice calling my name down the hall.

By noon, the Wiles family boardroom felt like an execution chamber.

"Your presence here is a liability," Eleanor Wiles stated from the head of the glass table. My mother-in-law smoothed her tailored blazer, refusing to meet my eyes. "The scandal surrounding Sorensen's unfortunate end, and your alleged financial mismanagement, is tanking our stock."

"He drained the accounts, Eleanor. Not me." I gripped the edge of the table. "He faked his death to be with his mistress. I saw him!"

"Enough of your hysterical lies!" Eleanor slammed her palm flat against the glass. "Sorensen's actions, whatever they may be, are his own. But you are the one who failed to keep your husband satisfied. A Wiles man does not stray unless his home is lacking. You were always a charity case. A nobody who married up. We are severing all ties."

"You cannot just throw me out."

"The board has already voted," the legal counsel chimed in, sliding a thick document across the table. "Your joint accounts are frozen pending a fraud investigation. You have one hour to vacate the estate."

I didn't argue. The cold stares of the board members told me everything I needed to know. I was entirely alone.

Two armed security guards escorted me through the mansion I had called home for five years. I packed exactly one suitcase. No jewelry. No designer coats Sorensen had bought me. Just my own clothes.

The heavy iron gates clanged shut behind me, locking me out in the freezing rain.

Three days later, survival overrode pride.

The heavy bass vibrated through the floorboards of The Obsidian Room. I adjusted my tight black uniform, balancing a tray of champagne flutes. A week ago, I sat in the VIP sections of places exactly like this. Tonight, I was serving the people who used to kiss my cheek at charity galas.

"Table four needs service," the floor manager barked, shoving a fresh bottle of Dom Pérignon into my hands. "Move it, Doris."

I navigated the crowded, dimly lit room. Table four was a massive booth wrapped in red leather.

"Well, well. Look who it is."

I froze. Julian Thorne, a trust-fund heir who used to play golf with Sorensen, sneered at me from the center of the couch.

"Doris Wiles," Julian announced loudly, drawing the attention of his wealthy friends. "Or is it just Doris now? I heard the Wiles family threw you out with the trash."

"Here is your champagne, sir," I said, keeping my face entirely blank. I set the bottle on the table.

"Do not run off." Julian grabbed my wrist. His grip was tight, his breath reeking of expensive vodka. "Tell us, how does it feel? Your husband fakes a fiery explosion just to knock up some blonde side piece?"

The table erupted in laughter. A girl in a sequined dress tossed a crumpled hundred-dollar bill at my feet. "Buy yourself a clue, honey."

"Release my arm," I demanded, pulling my wrist back.

Julian stood up, towering over me. "You used to look down your nose at us. Now you are pouring my drinks."

He yanked my arm hard. The tray tipped. Ice-cold champagne splashed violently across my chest, soaking the thin fabric of my uniform.

"Oops," Julian mocked. He reached out, his fingers brushing against my damp collarbone. "Let me help you dry off."

"Do not touch me!" I shoved his chest.

He stumbled back, his amusement vanishing instantly. "You ungrateful bitch."

Julian lunged, pinning me against the dark corner of the booth. The velvet wall scraped against my bare shoulders. I kicked at his shins, but he pressed his weight heavily against me. The crowd around us just watched, their faces lit by the flashing strobe lights, smiling at the free entertainment.

Panic clawed at my throat. I twisted my torso, trying to break free.

"Take your hands off her."

The voice cut through the heavy bass. Low, authoritative, and utterly terrifying.

Julian froze. He turned his head, and all the color drained from his flushed face.

Alexander stood at the edge of the booth. He wore a dark suit, his expression a mask of pure ice. Two massive bouncers flanked his sides.

"Mr. Walton," Julian stammered, instantly dropping his hands from my shoulders. "We were just having some fun—"

"Throw him out," Alexander interrupted, not even looking at Julian.

The bouncers moved immediately. They grabbed Julian by his arms, dragging him backward as he kicked and shouted. His friends scrambled out of the booth, fleeing the VIP section without a single backward glance.

The music seemed to muffle as Alexander stepped closer. He took off his suit jacket and draped it over my shivering, soaked shoulders.

I clutched the lapels, glaring up at him. "Do you own this place too?"

"Walton Group acquired it last year," he replied, his tone infuriatingly calm.

"Are you having me followed, Alex?" My voice cracked with exhaustion and anger. "Is that how you knew I was here?"

"You used your real name on the employment application. It crossed my desk." He looked down at the spilled champagne, then back up to my face. "You should not be working in a place like this."

"I do not have a choice!" I yelled, uncaring who heard us. "Your best friend stole my money, and your silence cost me my home. I have nothing left."

"I offered you my apartment."

"I do not want your charity. I want you to leave me alone." I shoved the jacket back toward his chest, but he caught my wrists, holding them gently but firmly.

His dark eyes locked onto mine, searching for something I refused to give him.

"You are angry, and you have every right to be," Alexander said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "But look around, Doris."

He released my wrists and gestured to the empty booth, the spilled liquor, the crumpled bills scattered on the sticky floor.

"If I didn't come," he asked, the intensity in his gaze pinning me in place, "what were you going to do?"

I opened my mouth to fire back a sharp retort, but the words died on my tongue. A new, terrifying thought crept into my mind. Why was Alexander Walton, the untouchable heir who never stepped foot in his own nightclubs, suddenly so invested in my survival?