Victor didn’t notice the difference at first.
Men like him never do.
I walked into the house wearing her perfume.
Her expression.
Her silence.
And he let me.
Because he wasn’t in love with a person.
He was in love with an idea.
For three days, I became her.
Soft-spoken.
Gentle.
Everything he wished I had been.
And in those three days—
he told me everything.
How he found me.
How he chose me.
How he lied.
“I almost forgot she wasn’t you,” he admitted one night, half-asleep.
I smiled in the dark.
Good.
That meant he wouldn’t see it coming.
On the fourth night, I made dinner.
His favorite.
Lit candles.
Poured wine.
He sat across from me, relaxed.
Happy.
Safe.
“Feels like things are finally right again,” he said.
I nodded.
“They are.”
He took a sip of wine.
Then another.
Then he frowned slightly.
“Did you put something in this?”
I tilted my head.
“Why would I do that?”
His vision started to blur.
Hands trembling.
Because unlike him—
I don’t make empty threats.
“I learned a lot from being your wife,” I said calmly. “Mostly how easy it is to trust the wrong person.”
“Elara…” he slurred. “What did you do…?”
I leaned forward.
Close enough for him to see the truth in my eyes.
“I removed the mistake.”
Panic flooded his face.
He tried to stand.
Failed.
Collapsed back into the chair.
And that’s when I said the last thing he would ever hear from me:
“You wanted your real life back.”
I smiled.
“Now you can keep it.”
The police report said it was poisoning.
The neighbors said they heard nothing.
And the woman who looked like me?
She disappeared.
Just like I did.
Because the truth is—
there were never two of us.
Just one woman…
who finally stopped pretending to be someone else.