Chapter 4: The Price of Pretending

I felt a jolt of guilt. Carter wasn’t the type to blow up your phone—unless he was really worried.

He stood out in his suit by the food trucks, hugging me tight in front of everyone.

He looked so out of place—tall, polished, a little impatient. When he spotted me, he pulled me into his arms, not caring who saw.

He whispered in my ear, just for me: "Sweetheart, if you do this again, your punishment will be…"

His breath was warm, his words sending a shiver down my spine. I elbowed him, half-laughing, half-mortified.

My ears went red. "Stop, stop! No dirty talk in public!"

People were staring. I tried to wriggle free, but he just grinned, soaking up my embarrassment.

He rubbed my head and pinched my ear. "Next time, let me know in advance. If I can’t find you, I’ll worry."

He said it softly, almost shy. Maybe I liked being missed more than I’d admit.

After that, Carter picked me up every few days.

Sometimes coffee, sometimes flowers. Sometimes just him, tired but happy to see me. It became our thing.

I didn’t think anything was off.

I told myself this was normal, that all couples did this. But deep down, I knew I was living on borrowed time.

After work, I’d get in the car, hugging and kissing him.

We’d talk about our days, laugh about office gossip, share inside jokes. It was easy. Too easy.

After kissing for a long time, we still hadn’t gotten home.

I lost track of time, of where we were. The city blurred past the windows, neon lights flickering.

I looked out and realized—this wasn’t the way home.

I frowned, trying to spot landmarks. "Where are we going?"

I asked, half-curious, half-suspicious. Carter just smiled, mysterious.

Carter held the back of my head. "You’ll see soon."

His fingers tangled in my hair, gentle but insistent. I felt a flutter in my stomach.

As we neared our stop, he blindfolded me.

I laughed, swatting at his hands. "Seriously?" He just grinned, tying the fabric gently. The world went dark, my senses on high alert.

About five minutes later, he stopped the car.

I listened to the engine tick, the sound of his door opening. My heart raced. Footsteps, then my door creaked open.

He took off the blindfold.

Sunlight exploded around me. I blinked, totally disoriented. A garden stretched out—wild, sprawling, covered in red roses. The air was thick and sweet.

The setting sun poured over a garden of roses—absolutely breathtaking.

It looked like a movie set. I spun in a slow circle, mouth open in wonder.

Behind me, someone brought out a birthday cake.

A little crowd gathered—staff, maybe friends—singing happy birthday. The cake was huge, candles everywhere. I stared, stunned.

With everyone singing, Carter bent down and kissed me.

His lips were soft, lingering. The world faded away, just for a second. I tasted sugar and something bittersweet.

"Charlotte, happy birthday."

His voice was gentle, his eyes warm. My heart twisted.

So that’s why he brought me here out of nowhere.

It all clicked—the secrecy, the detour, the blindfold. He’d done all this for me. For her.

Turns out, it was Charlotte’s birthday.

Not mine. The reminder was sharp, cold. I was living someone else’s life, even on her birthday.

My feelings were a mess.

I wanted to be happy, to soak up the attention. But guilt gnawed at me. None of this was really mine.

Yeah.

The one married to Carter was Charlotte, not me.

I tried to forget, but it always circled back, haunting me.

I wasn’t his wife.

Just the girl pretending to be.

Carter saw my mood drop. Like a guilty puppy, he nervously asked, "Don’t you like it?"

His eyes searched mine, worried. He looked almost…vulnerable. My heart ached.

I shoved down my tangled thoughts and smiled. "I like it."

I forced the words out, hoping they sounded convincing. He smiled, relief written all over his face.

The stand-in marriage was supposed to last one year.

Twelve months. That was the deal. I kept telling myself it was temporary, that I could walk away when it was over.

Now, half a year had flown by.

Six months gone in a blur. I barely recognized myself anymore.

I always thought there was still half a year left—until, a month later, Mr. Whitmore texted me.

The message popped up late at night, screen glowing in the dark. My stomach dropped.

[We found her.]

Two words. That’s all it took to shatter everything.

Charlotte had come back and was being kept at a house in the suburbs.

They’d tracked her down, dragged her home. The Whitmores didn’t mess around. Not even a little.

She and her boyfriend were caught and brought back together.

I pictured her—terrified, furious, clinging to her boyfriend. I wondered if she hated me for taking her place. Probably.

She was on a hunger strike, refusing to go back to her old life no matter what.

The stubbornness ran deep, I guess. Part of me admired her for it.

I watched the video Mr. Whitmore sent.

My hands shook as I hit play. The screen flickered, audio crackling. I braced myself.

The video was kind of blurry.

It looked like it was shot on a potato, colors washed out, faces hard to see.

Charlotte looked almost exactly like me. With the bad quality, if I didn’t know better, I’d think someone was filming me in secret.

It was eerie—like watching a ghost of myself. Same eyes, same hair, same nervous tic in her jaw. Freaky.

She screamed at the camera: "How can you marry me off to someone I don’t even like! I told you I don’t like Carter—I have a boyfriend! Do you really have to force me to death?!"

Her voice was raw, desperate. Guilt stabbed through me—a sharp twist in my gut. She was fighting for her life, and I was just…living it.

I stared blankly at my phone, not even noticing Carter standing behind me.

I was so caught up in the video, I didn’t hear him come in. The air shifted. My heart jumped.

After the video ended, a slender finger tapped the screen and replayed it.

He leaned over my shoulder, silent. His finger brushed mine, cool and steady. I held my breath, bracing for impact.

After the crying, her hoarse voice played again from the phone’s speaker.

The words echoed in the quiet room. Haunting. I couldn’t look at him.

Carter rested his chin on my shoulder, his hand already slipping under my pajamas.

His touch was possessive, grounding. I shivered, not sure if it was fear or something else.

"Doesn’t like me at all?"

His voice was soft, almost amused. But I heard the ache beneath it. Ouch.

Me: "!"

Panic shot through me. I scrambled for the pause button, searching for a lie that would stick.

I fumbled to turn off the video.

My fingers shook. The screen went black. My breath was ragged.

His tie wrapped around my wrist.

He moved fast, looping the silk around my hands. It was playful, but there was an edge.

"When was this video taken?"

His voice was low, dangerous. I forced myself to meet his eyes, praying he couldn’t see through me.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

He didn’t seem suspicious—just curious. I clung to that. Desperate.

He thought it was an old video, not realizing the girl wasn’t me.

For once, my luck held. I kept my face blank, praying he wouldn’t push.

I lied: "I forgot. It’s from a long time ago."

The lie tasted bitter. I hated how easy it was to deceive him now.

Carter tightened the tie, pulling my hands behind my back.

He grinned, a little wicked. I tried to focus on the game, not the guilt gnawing at me.

He was in a great mood today, speaking gently and softly.

His words were soft, his touch gentle. It made it hard to breathe.

"What should I do? Our Charlotte hates me so much, but still had to marry me."

His tone was teasing, but I heard the hurt beneath it. I wanted to comfort him, but couldn’t.

My heart trembled. "Car… Carter…"

My voice was a whisper, trembling. I could barely get it out.

This was what I feared most. When he’s fierce, I’m not so scared. It’s when he’s gentle that he’s the most dangerous.

Gentleness can cut deeper than anger. Trust me.

"Anything you want to explain?"

His eyes searched mine, looking for answers I couldn’t give.

No.

There was nothing I could say that would make this right.

What could I possibly explain?

The truth would destroy us both. So I stayed silent.

Charlotte really doesn’t like you.

The words echoed in my mind, unspoken. Did he already know?

I stayed silent.

The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating.

Carter laughed and ordered, "Kneel properly."

His voice was playful, but there was iron underneath. I obeyed, not trusting myself to speak.

I buried my head in the pillow.

I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could disappear. The pillow muffled my breath. My thoughts spun out of control.

Carter pressed down, demanding to know who my boyfriend was.

His questions came fast, relentless. I stammered, trying to keep my story straight.

Help—how would I know who Charlotte’s boyfriend is?

I racked my brain, searching for a name, a detail. Nothing came.

I tried to dodge, which only made him more intense.

He didn’t let up, his grip tightening. My heart raced, panic rising.

My eyes went fuzzy, my gaze dazed.

I felt myself slipping, losing track of what was real and what was pretend.

He finally calmed down and kissed my neck. "Babe, it’s okay if you didn’t like me before marriage, or even had a boyfriend. Now you’re mine."

His words were possessive, final. I shivered, unsure how to feel.

"You can only be mine."

There was no room for argument. I nodded, silent.

Things with Charlotte were still up in the air.

The real Charlotte was out there, her fate hanging in the balance. I tried not to think about it.

But I had a bigger problem.

Something was growing inside me.

I was pregnant.

The word echoed in my mind, terrifying and miraculous. I pressed a hand to my stomach, barely daring to hope.

My period, always on time, was late this month. That’s when I knew something was off.

At first, I blamed stress, travel, bad takeout. But deep down, I knew. My body felt different, foreign.

Carter always took precautions—except for that one time he lost control.

It was late, we were both exhausted, emotions high. One slip, and now everything had changed.

That night, I was so wiped I couldn’t move. The next day, I was busy giving him the cold shoulder, watching him fuss and try to make it up to me. Birth control didn’t even cross my mind.

I replayed it over and over, wishing I’d done something different. But it was too late.

Carter probably remembered.

He was careful—almost paranoid. But that night, he let his guard down. I wondered if he suspected.

That day, when I was taking vitamin C, he specifically asked what medicine I was taking.

His eyes were sharp, questioning. I brushed him off, but he didn’t look convinced.

Why didn’t I think to take emergency contraception?

I cursed myself for being careless, for letting my guard down. I was supposed to be smarter than this.

I waited anxiously for the nurse to call my name.

The clinic was cold, the chairs hard. I fiddled with my phone, trying to distract myself. Every second crawled by.

Half an hour later, I held a pregnancy report, my mind blank.

The words blurred on the page. Positive. My hands shook. I felt like I was floating, untethered.

It’s over.

My old life, my old plans—gone. I was someone new now, whether I liked it or not.

Really over.

No going back. Not now.

I took a photo and sent it to Mr. Whitmore.

My fingers trembled as I hit send. I didn’t know what I expected—a solution, maybe. Or just someone to tell me what to do.

[How’s Charlotte?]

I typed quickly, heart pounding. I needed answers.

[I’m pregnant. If you still want to switch us back, do it soon. Once I start showing, it’ll be too late.]

I tried to sound calm, all business. But inside, I was unraveling.

If you wait until I give birth, switching back will be impossible.

I couldn’t imagine giving up my baby, letting someone else raise them. The thought made me sick.

There’s no way I could leave my child and let someone else be their mother.

I’d never been sure of anything in my life, but this—I knew I couldn’t walk away.

As for abortion…

I thought about it, late at night, staring at the ceiling. Not now.

I’m not ready to give up the baby.

I pressed a hand to my stomach, whispering a promise. I’d figure something out. I had to.

Mr. Whitmore probably hadn’t seen the message yet and hadn’t replied.

The waiting was torture. I kept checking my phone, hoping for a sign.

I sat on a bench outside the hospital.

The sun was setting, the air crisp. People hurried past, lost in their own lives. I felt invisible, alone.

My phone lit up in my lap.

I jumped, hope flaring. But it wasn’t him.

I thought it was Mr. Whitmore, but when I checked, it was Carter.

His name glowed on the screen. I hesitated, then picked up.

"Babe, what do you want for dinner?"

His voice was warm, casual. Like nothing had changed. I blinked back tears, forcing myself to sound normal.

I typed: "Not sure yet, but I want a corn dog."

It was our little joke, a throwback to how we met. I hoped it would make him smile.

He replied: "Wait for me after work. We’ll go get it together."

I smiled, just a little. Maybe things could be okay, at least for tonight.

A cold wind blew from north to south.

The seasons were changing. I pulled my coat tighter, shivering. I felt it in my bones.

Winter was coming.

The city seemed quieter, the days shorter. Everything felt uncertain.

So cold.

I rubbed my hands together, wishing for warmth that wouldn’t come.

That evening, not sure what to eat, Carter and I went to the supermarket, bought a ton of groceries, and filled the fridge.

We wandered the aisles, bickering over cereal, sneaking snacks into the cart. It felt almost normal—almost like we were just another couple, playing house. Almost.

I said I’d cook and told him to prep the ingredients.

He grumbled, but did as he was told, sleeves rolled up, humming under his breath. I watched him, feeling a strange mix of affection and sadness.

With the hard part given to him, cooking was a breeze.

I chopped, stirred, tasted. The kitchen filled with the smell of garlic and butter, the sizzle of shrimp in the pan. Homey.

I made garlic shrimp, broccoli with mushrooms, mac and cheese, and barbecue ribs.

It was a feast—way too much for two people. Carter ate like he hadn’t seen food in days, making happy noises with every bite.

After I finished, Carter took off my apron and kissed me. "Babe, you’ve worked hard."

His lips were soft, lingering. I rolled my eyes, but secretly loved the attention.

I pushed him away. "My face is oily from cooking, don’t kiss me."

He just laughed, ignoring my protests. I wiped my face with a dish towel, pretending to be annoyed.

After dinner, he cleared the table. I curled up on the sofa playing video games and got a message from Mr. Whitmore.

The sound of plates clinking in the kitchen faded as I stared at my phone. My hands shook as I read the message.

"Charlotte agreed. When’s the soonest you can switch back?"

My heart dropped. This was it. I was running out of time.

I instinctively glanced at the kitchen. Carter was loading dishes, now wiping the table.

He looked so domestic, so at ease. I wanted to freeze this moment, keep it forever.

Noticing me looking, he said, "Babe, I’ll be done soon and come play with you."

His voice was soft, reassuring. I forced a smile, my heart breaking.

I lowered my head and replied.

I typed fast, barely thinking. My fingers flew over the keys, spelling out my escape.

[Next week. Carter’s going on a business trip. She can come early to get used to the house. Send me Charlotte’s Facebook—I’ll tell her some of Carter’s habits.]

I hit send, my hands trembling. This was it. The end was coming.

Before his trip, Carter, unusually, didn’t cling to me. Instead, he asked, "Babe, did you miss your period this month?"

I froze, searching for a lie. "I’ll get it checked in a couple of days. Maybe it’s just irregular again—it’s happened before."

I tried to sound casual, but my voice shook. He watched me, eyes narrowed.

He seemed thoughtful. "When I come back next week, I’ll go with you."

His words were gentle, but there was a challenge in them. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

I nodded. "Mm-hmm."

I kept my eyes down, afraid he’d see the truth.

He turned off the bedside lamp and the room went dark.

The darkness was comforting, hiding my tears. I curled into him, wishing things could be different.

We cuddled in the big bed and fell asleep.

His arms were warm, heartbeat steady. I tried to memorize the feeling, knowing it wouldn’t last.

I rested my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

One beat after another, slow and steady. I tried to anchor myself.

Carter often went on business trips.

He was always flying somewhere—New York, Chicago, LA. I’d gotten used to the goodbyes, the empty house.

Before he left, I stood on tiptoe to kiss him goodbye. "I won’t see you off at the airport. Be safe."

I tried to keep my voice light, hiding the ache inside. He smiled, brushing a strand of hair from my face.

He rubbed my head. "Babe, you too. Stay safe at home."

His words were simple, but meant everything. I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.

I smiled and pushed him away. "Alright, go on. If you don’t leave now, you’ll be late. What could possibly happen to me at home?"

I tried to joke, but my voice cracked. He lingered in the doorway, reluctant to leave.

He left reluctantly.

I watched him go, the door closing softly behind him. The silence was deafening.

Something did happen at home.

As soon as he was gone, the reality hit. I was alone, really alone, for the first time in months.

I looked around, trying to figure out what I could take with me.

I wandered from room to room, touching things I’d never really owned. Everything was Charlotte’s—or Carter’s. Nothing was mine.

But in Carter’s house, everything belonged to him or his wife, Charlotte.

I was just a guest, a placeholder. I couldn’t take anything with me, not really.

When I left, I couldn’t even pack a suitcase.

I stuffed a few clothes into a backpack, grabbed my toiletries. It felt like stealing.

In the end, I took a ruby necklace from the dressing table.

It was the only thing that felt like mine. Carter had given it to me—well, to Charlotte, but still. I needed something to hold onto.

It was the first gift Carter ever gave me.

He’d surprised me with it on a random Tuesday. I remembered the look in his eyes as he fastened it around my neck.

I put on the necklace; the cold gem rested against my skin.

It felt heavy, like a promise I couldn’t keep. I tucked it beneath my shirt, hiding it from the world.

I’d just say I lost it.

If anyone asked, I’d claim it slipped off somewhere. A small lie, compared to all the others.

I took out another phone.

My burner, the one Mr. Whitmore gave me. I dialed the number, my hands steady for the first time all day.

"He’s gone. You can come over now."

My voice was flat, emotionless. I felt like I was watching myself from far away.

"Remember to transfer the money to me."

Business, always business. I hung up before he could reply.

I went to the Whitmore family’s, picked up my own ID and passport, and headed to the airport.

Everything was arranged. My documents were waiting, my ticket booked. I moved through the airport in a daze, numb.

The plane pierced the clouds; the trip took ten hours.

I watched the world shrink below, city lights winking out one by one. I tried not to cry.

The ruby necklace on my chest caught the sunlight, sparkling.

I touched it—a silent promise to myself and the baby. We’d be okay. Somehow.

I closed my eyes.

Sleep came fitfully, dreams full of faces I’d never see again.

I left those eight dreamlike months behind me.

I whispered goodbye to the life I’d borrowed, the love I’d never really owned.

Tomorrow is a brand new day.

I promised myself I’d start over, no matter how hard it was. For me. For the baby. For the chance at something real, at last.