My Husband Becomes His Twin—Wait What

The air in Demian Oliver' s apartment was thick and hot, our bodies slick with sweat. This was it, the secret celebration of our graduation, the moment I had waited for.

Then, in the peak of his passion, he whispered a name: "Finley."

Not my name.

My name is Finley Brooks. Finley is my younger twin sister.

My whole body went cold.

I found his phone, and a group chat called "The Conquest" revealed a picture of me sleeping in his bed, my back exposed.

Messages confirmed my worst fears: "Consider this a warm-up. Gotta get familiar with the family before I go for the main prize."

Two years of secret dates, stolen kisses, and whispered promises were all a lie. I was just a conquest, an appetizer for my own sister.

The humiliation continued at the graduation party.

My sister, Finley, publicly exposed the hickeys Demian had left on my neck, mocking me. Demian, the man I thought loved me, stood by and watched, his expression unreadable. Later, during a game of Truth or Dare, he publicly disowned me, forcing me to drink an entire bottle of vodka.

I didn't understand. Why was I always the target? Why did my own family, and the man I loved, choose to humiliate me so cruelly?

That night, I received an email: early admission to Crestwood Institute for Advanced Research, a secluded university thousands of miles away. It was my chance to escape, to become a ghost.

Chapter 1

The air in Demian Oliver' s apartment was thick and hot. Our bodies were slick with sweat, tangled together in the sheets of his bed. This was it, the secret celebration of our graduation, the moment I had waited for. His hands were everywhere, his breath hot against my neck.

In the peak of his passion, he leaned in close, his lips brushing my ear.

"Finley," he whispered, his voice rough.

My whole body went cold. It wasn't my name. My name is Finley Brooks. Finley is my younger twin sister.

I stopped moving, my mind racing. "What did you just say?"

He didn' t seem to notice the shift in me. His hips kept moving against mine, a steady, demanding rhythm. "Nothing, baby. Just telling you how good you feel."

His hands moved to my hips, holding me in place, trying to pull me back into the moment. But his touch now felt wrong, like a violation. I pushed against his chest, trying to create space between us.

"No, you said a name," I insisted, my voice trembling.

He finally stopped, looking down at me with a lazy, satisfied smile that now made my stomach turn. "I said your name, Finley Brooks. Who else would I be thinking about?"

He kissed me then, a deep, bruising kiss meant to silence my questions, to overwhelm my senses. For a moment, I almost let it. But the wrongness of it all was a sharp, clear note in the fog of passion.

My body was exhausted. He had pushed me to my limits, and I felt drained, a deep ache settling into my bones. I didn' t have the energy to fight him anymore. He finally finished, rolling off me with a heavy sigh.

"I' m gonna grab a drink," he said, getting out of bed. "You want anything?"

I just shook my head, not trusting my voice. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, I curled into a ball, the sheets feeling cold and strange against my skin.

My body was screaming with exhaustion. Every muscle ached. I felt fragile, used. Lying there, I heard a buzz from the floor. It was his phone.

He' d left it behind. It buzzed again, the screen lighting up. Curiosity, a sick, twisting feeling in my gut, made me reach for it. I shouldn' t. I knew I shouldn' t. But the name he' d whispered echoed in my mind.

I picked it up. The screen was lit with a notification from a group chat. The name of the group was "The Conquest." My heart pounded against my ribs.

A new message popped up. "So, did you do it? Did you finally get the ice queen?"

My fingers trembled as I clicked on the notification. The chat history opened, and I saw a picture he had sent just an hour ago. It was of me, sleeping in his bed, my face turned away from the camera. My back was exposed, vulnerable.

I scrolled up, my breath catching in my throat. The messages were a brutal chronicle of his intentions.