Stolen Vows, Broken Hearts / Chapter 1: The Stand-In's Secret
Stolen Vows, Broken Hearts

Stolen Vows, Broken Hearts

Author: Christopher Williams


Chapter 1: The Stand-In's Secret

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So, here’s how it really started: Eight months into Carter Hayes’s marriage, I found out I was pregnant.

I can still see it—me, standing in the bathroom, gripping that test like it might explode. The world tipped sideways; my hands shook. The bathroom light above me flickered, buzzing faintly, and the air smelled faintly of cheap lavender cleaner. My heart was thumping so loud I was sure the neighbors could hear. Was this even real?

But here’s the kicker: I’m not his wife—I’m just a stand-in. Crazy, right?

That’s the part nobody ever believes. I get it. It sounds straight out of some cheesy late-night cable movie. But for me? It was all too real. I was just a nobody who stumbled into the wrong story at the wrong time, swept up like a stray leaf in a hurricane. Wild, but true.

The eldest daughter of the Whitmore family ran away right before her wedding. And, because I look almost exactly like her—same stubborn chin, same ridiculous dimple—they dragged me in to take her place. I know. Sounds insane.

I mean, what are the odds? Who expects to get mistaken for a runaway heiress just because you share a weird little dimple and a stubborn jawline? Sometimes, life is stranger than fiction. No kidding. That’s how I wound up staring down the barrel of someone else’s destiny, blinking like a deer in headlights.

Mr. Whitmore promised me $80,000 if I stuck it out for one year.

Eighty grand. I just stopped and stared at him. That kind of cash could change everything—wipe out my student loans, kill off my credit cards, maybe even let me breathe for once. It sounded like a scam. But I was desperate, and desperation? It’ll make you do things you never thought you would.

Now, though, everything’s different. Big time.

I used to think I could keep my heart out of it—just fake my way through, take the money, and vanish. Turns out, not so much. Real life has a way of bleeding through the script, especially when feelings get tangled up in the mix.

I called him, totally panicked: "They’ve found her. You need to switch us back—now, before it’s too late."

My voice was shaking, the words spilling out in a messy rush. Who was this girl? Not the cool, collected stand-in I played at dinner parties. This was just me—raw, scared, clutching my phone like it was a lifeline, my knuckles white.

I didn’t even have time to pack before they hustled me away that night. No warning. No time to think.

One minute, I was making coffee in Carter’s kitchen. The next, I was shoved into a town car, my world shrinking to a duffel and a passport. The city lights streaked past the window, all smeared and unreal. I kept waiting for someone to yell, "Just kidding!" But nobody did.

Half a month later, I was feeding pigeons in a Paris park, trying to figure out what the hell to do about the baby. And the baby. God, the baby.

Paris. The city of lights, lovers, and endless possibilities. For me? Just another place to hide. I sat on a freezing bench, tossing stale bread to fat gray pigeons, my thoughts just kept going round and round. What now? What about the baby? What about me?

Then—out of nowhere—someone yanked me into their arms.

For a split second, my brain went blank. Strong arms wrapped around me, a rush of cologne—woodsy, crisp, unmistakably him. My heart froze, then took off like a jackrabbit. Wait. What?

He gently stroked my cheek, his voice low, almost lazy: "Honey, had enough fun? If so, it’s time to come home."

His words were soft, almost teasing, but there was iron underneath. I looked up, straight into Carter’s eyes—stormy, locked on mine, impossible to read. The pigeons scattered, but I barely noticed. It was just us, and the secret twisting inside me.

Getting forced into marriage with Carter Hayes? That was pure accident. Seriously.

If you’d told me a year ago I’d end up in a marriage—fake or not—with one of the city’s most eligible bachelors, I would’ve laughed so hard I’d choke. No way, right? But fate’s got a twisted sense of humor.

There I was, just buying a corn dog from a food truck, when—bam—my life flipped upside down.

It was a sunny Saturday, and I’d just clocked out from my bookstore shift, craving something greasy. The line was forever, and I was mindlessly scrolling TikTok, not even looking up. Suddenly, two guys in black suits showed up behind me. Before I could blink, they grabbed me. The half-eaten corn dog hit the pavement. I didn’t even get to finish it.

Big guys in suits muscled me into a black SUV, like they couldn’t even hear me.

I kicked, yelled, even tried to bite. No one cared. The city just kept rolling. My phone buzzed in my pocket—totally out of reach. The SUV reeked of leather and aftershave. My heart was beating so hard it felt like it might burst right out of my chest. Everything sounded muffled, like I was underwater.

Thirty minutes later, they dumped me at this massive mansion.

Not just any house—this place looked like it belonged on the cover of Architectural Digest. Gated drive, lawns so perfect they didn’t seem real, a swan-shaped fountain. My sneakers squeaked on the marble as they dragged me inside. I felt like an alien.

Inside the cavernous living room, a middle-aged man perched on the edge of a velvet sofa.

He looked exactly like every rich dad in a Netflix drama: pressed suit, silver hair, the kind of face that never hears no. His eyes flicked over me, sharp as knives.

The second he spotted me, he snatched up a coffee mug and hurled it at my head.

The mug scraped across the table, whizzed past my ear, and exploded against the wall. Coffee everywhere. I ducked, my heart leaping into my throat. Not exactly the meet-cute I imagined.

He thundered, "Charlotte, do you know what happens when you run out on your wedding? How did I raise a daughter like you!"

His voice boomed, echoing through the house. The tension was so thick it felt like the air itself was holding its breath. I pressed back against the wall, hands up, eyes wide.

I dodged fast, missing the mug by inches.

My reflexes had never been so good. Guess adrenaline really does work. The broken porcelain glittered on the floor. I tried to shrink into nothing.

The man’s face got even redder.

He slammed his cane on the floor—crack!—and I jumped. I could almost see cartoon steam puffing from his ears. He was about to blow.

"You still dare to dodge? After all these years, you make a mess like this and still have the nerve to dodge?"

I almost burst out laughing. Was dodging flying mugs disrespectful now? I bit my tongue, because I was not about to test his patience.

Me: "What?"

That’s all I managed. My voice came out tiny and lost. I stared at him, brain short-circuiting.

He grabbed his cane, waving it like some old-school principal.

He actually stood up, cane ready. I scrambled back, heart pounding. This could not be happening.

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