Ten Years a Stand-in Wife—Old Money Only Recognizes Me Chapter 04

Ten Years a Stand-in Wife—Old Money Only Recognizes Me Chapter 04

As I walked out of the Mercer apartment, the autumn wind swept leaves onto the windshield.

Jacob didn’t ask what happened. He glanced at me through the rearview mirror and quietly turned on the seat heater.

“Home?”

“Yes.”

The car merged into rush-hour traffic, stopping and starting. I leaned back and closed my eyes.

All I could see was Valerie’s face.

Ten years hadn’t changed her features much. Just added a kind of ease—something shaped by sunlight and freedom.

Her nails were done in a French manicure. A pearl hung from her earlobe. The tattoo on her collarbone still looked fresh—recently touched up.

She had lived well.

These past ten years.

I had married for her, raised her child, managed every relationship in the Shaw family. Hosted dinners, cared for elders, smiled when I had to, said all the right things.

And her?

Paris. Rome. Athens. Prague.

Thirteen countries.

Exhausting, wasn’t it?

I lowered the window two inches. Cold air rushed in, hitting my cheekbones.

My phone rang.

The name on the screen: Adrian.

I picked up.

“Where are you?” His voice was low, slightly hoarse, like sandpaper brushing over polished wood.

“Still on the loop. Traffic’s bad. About forty minutes out.”

“Hmm.”

Two seconds of silence.

“Ethan made a cake. Said he saved you the biggest slice.”

“Okay.”

Another two seconds.

“Why did your mom call you back?”

He sounded casual, but I caught the faintest pause.

“She’s back.”

I didn’t even need to say the name.

Silence stretched on the other end for three seconds.

“Got it.”

Then he hung up.

No extra questions. No “what now,” no “what do you want to do.”

Just: got it.

But I knew Adrian.

Those three seconds of silence meant he had already run through every possible move in his head.

He never wasted words.

He was the same ten years ago.

The night of the wedding.

Master bedroom at Shaw Manor. Dim lighting. Curtains drawn tight.

I stood there in an ill-fitting wedding dress—tailored for Valerie. The waist was two inches too big, pinned tight at the back like I was wrapped in a flag.

He sat on the edge of the bed.

Suit immaculate, tie loosened halfway, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The liquid glowed amber under the light.

I stood by the door, fingertips cold, knees trembling.

He looked up at me.

Not examining.

It was confirming.

“You’re not Valerie Mercer.”

My heartbeat skipped.

My lips moved, but no sound came out.

“Valerie Mercer has a mole here,” he said calmly, like he was reading a weather report. “You don’t.”

No accusation.

No anger.

Just stating something he already knew.

I stood there for a long time.

Then finally spoke. “I’m her sister.”

My voice bounced once against the heavy curtains, then sank.

He took a sip of his drink.

“Your family sent you here.”

Not a question.

“…Yes.”

He set the glass down on the nightstand with a soft clink.

“What’s your name?”

“S-Sloane. Sloane Mercer.”

“Sloane Mercer.” He repeated it, weighing the name on his tongue.

Then he stood up.

Walked to the closet, opened it, took out a folded blanket and a pillow, and set them on the sofa.

“I’ll take the couch tonight.”

“You take the bed.”

“I’ll deal with this tomorrow.”