Chapter 2

"Who?"

"Sophia."

Julian's expression finally cracked.

His eyebrows knitted tightly, his lips pressing into a hard line.

"Why would you want to meet her?"

"I want to see exactly how much of a clone I am."

"Chloe, can you grow up?"

His patience was wearing thin. "We’ve been together for eight years. We’re about to get married. Are you really going to ruin everything over a stupid comment?"

"Ruin everything?"

My tears finally spilled over.

"Julian, if you found out today that I only dated you because you were a carbon copy of my ex, how would you feel?"

He fell silent.

For a long, agonizing minute.

Finally, he said, "I wouldn't find out, because I wouldn't waste my time being paranoid like you."

Those words felt like a bucket of ice water poured over my head.

Suddenly, a strange calm washed over me.

My tears stopped. My voice stopped shaking.

"Get out."

"Chloe—"

"Get out."

I pointed toward the front door.

Julian stared at me for a few seconds. Then, he turned, grabbed his car keys from the table, and walked out without looking back.

*Slam.*

The sound of the door echoed through the empty apartment.

I stood there, my fingernails digging so hard into my palms that they drew blood.

It hurt.

But it was nothing compared to the agony in my chest.

Eight years.

I had loved him with everything I had for eight years.

From eighteen to twenty-six, I gave him the absolute best years of my youth.

I brought him dinner when he worked late, I stayed up waiting for him after his business dinners, and I emptied my savings to support him when he started his company.

I thought we were partners building a life together.

It turned out I was just a compromise.

Our framed photo hung on the living room wall.

It was taken last Christmas. I had begged him for weeks before he finally agreed.

In the photo, his smile was strained, while mine was radiant.

At the time, I foolishly thought he just hated cameras.

Now I understood. He didn't hate cameras.

He just hated taking photos with me.

I took the frame down, opened the back, and pulled the photo out.

Flipping it over, I saw his handwriting on the back.

That day, he had scribbled something quickly. I had insisted on seeing it, and he had reluctantly let me.

There was only one line written on the back:

*"Julian Vance, December 25th, 20XX."*

No mention of my name.

No "us."

Just him.

Just like his world, which had never truly had a place for me.

I tore the photo into pieces and threw them into the trash can.

My phone buzzed.

It was a friend request on Snapchat from his best friend. The message attached read:

"Hey Chloe, it's Carter. Please add me back, I want to explain."

I accepted the request.

Carter immediately sent a barrage of messages:

"Chloe, I am so incredibly sorry. I had way too much to drink tonight, please don't take anything I said seriously."

"Julian and I grew up together, and I have a big mouth. Please don't be mad at him. Julian doesn't have an ex. Sophia is just an old friend from college, they were never a thing."

"You know how Julian is—he's not a big talker, but he really loves you. You guys are getting married, please don't let my drunk rambling ruin things. I beg you."

A long paragraph, but the core message was simple: *There is no ex, I was lying.*

But if he was just lying, why did they talk about Sophia so many times in their private chats?

Why was Julian’s first instinct to defend himself rather than deny the whole "replica" thing?

Why was he so afraid of me meeting her?

Doubt is like a nail driven into a wall.

Even if you pull it out, the hole remains.

I didn't reply to Carter.

I put my phone down, walked into the bedroom, and slid open the closet.

Julian’s clothes occupied two-thirds of the space.

His suits, his shirts, his ties—all dark, minimalist, and cold.

Just like him.

My clothes were crammed into a tiny corner, bright and colorful.

I used to think we complemented each other.

Now, I realized we were just incompatible.

I sat on the edge of the bed, unable to close my eyes for the entire night.

On the rack, his dark navy shirt hung right next to my pastel pink dress.

The sleeves overlapped, looking like they were holding hands.

How pathetic.

At dawn, the lock clicked.

Julian pushed the door open, carrying a bag from our favorite local breakfast spot.

Coffee and fresh bagels. The ones I ordered every weekend.

He saw me sitting on the sofa and paused. "You didn't sleep?"