Victor Hale

She had planned everything meticulously. For months, she studied herself in the mirror, perfecting every detail her double needed to mimic. Her laughter, her habits, the way her hand hovered just a second too long before closing a door—nothing was left to chance. The double wasn’t just convincing; she was her.

The night finally came. She stood behind the curtain, watching as her creation, her mirror image, greeted her husband with a smile. Her heart pounded as she turned to leave, the weight of her old life lifting with each step. Freedom was within reach.

But before she could slip away entirely, she heard it. His voice, sharp and cold, cut through the silence:

"Who are you?"

She froze. It wasn’t anger, nor confusion—it was something darker, more knowing. Slowly, she turned back toward the room. From her hidden vantage point, she saw him staring at the double, his head tilted, a faint smirk curling his lips.

How had he seen through it so quickly? She had accounted for everything... or so she thought.

And then it hit her: the way he looked at the double wasn’t the way he used to look at her. It wasn’t recognition—it was curiosity. As if, for the first time in years, she had truly surprised him.

But then he said something else, and it made her blood run cold.

"Do you think I didn’t know what you’d try?"