His phone was on the nightstand. Face ID. It shouldn't have unlocked for me. But it did. And the messages I found weren't meant for me — they were for a woman who looks exactly like me.
I woke up in my apartment. Everything was the same — except my girlfriend had been dead for three years. At least, that's what the photo on the wall said. "In loving memory of Nina. 1995-2021." But Nina was alive this morning. She's the one who sent me here. My name is Alex. Twenty-four hours ago, I was a normal guy with a normal life. Now I'm trapped in a parallel universe where the woman I love is a ghost.
My daughter stopped talking to me the day she saw us together. "She's younger than me, Dad. What the hell is wrong with you?" I'm sixty years old. My girlfriend is twenty-two. And I've never been happier — or more hated.
I opened the DNA test results expecting to find my ancestry. Instead, I found out my sugar daddy is my biological father. We'd been together for eight months. I haven't stopped shaking for three days. My name is Jade. I'm twenty-three. And I just discovered that the man who paid my rent, bought me designer bags, and took me to five-star hotels shares 50% of my DNA.
I hired her to flirt with my husband. Just flirt. See if he'd take the bait. She sent me the positive pregnancy test this morning with one message: "He passed your test. But I failed mine." This is my fault. All of it. My name is Victoria. I've been married to David for seven years. And three months ago, I made the worst decision of my life.
I dropped my coffee cup. It shattered on the sidewalk, but I couldn't move. Across the street, my dead husband was holding a little girl's hand. She called him "Daddy." He looked up. Our eyes met. And he walked away like he'd never seen me before. My name is Claire. I spent three years in therapy learning to accept that my husband drowned. I spread his ashes in the ocean. I wore black for a year. I finally started dating again. And now I'm watching him buy ice cream for a child who isn't mine. James died five years ago. That's what everyone told me.
I was standing at my father's grave when I saw her. My best friend Emma. Walking toward the funeral with a woman I'd never seen — holding a photo of my dad. "Who are they?" my mom whispered. I had no idea. But Emma was crying like she'd lost a father too.
The priest said "You may kiss the bride." He lifted my veil. And I saw it — a tiny scar above his left eyebrow. Ethan doesn't have a scar there. I married the wrong brother. My name is Sophie. Three hours ago, I became Mrs. Blake. But I'm not sure which Mr. Blake is my husband anymore.
I felt his eyes on me again. Across the dinner table, while my mom talked about her day at work. He wasn't even pretending anymore. And the worst part? I didn't look away either. My mother married Marcus six months ago. I should be happy for her. So why do I feel like I'm losing my mind?
I spent a year comforting my "sensitive" boyfriend about his "troubled best friend's" reckless life of parties and women. I felt so sorry for him. Then, by accident, I found the friend's secret Instagram—a profile of a faceless local Casanova. And in one photo, a mirror not only showed a familiar tattoo on his arm, but also reflected him, naked, taking the picture. The "friend" he cried about was him.
For two years, I hated a woman I'd never met. My boyfriend painted her as a monster who ruined his life. I believed every word. Until she contacted me with proof that shattered not just our relationship, but my understanding of good and evil. The real monster was the man I'd been sharing a bed with…
"Kiss me," he whispered, pressing me against the wall of the storage room. The wedding march played somewhere in the distance. In ten minutes, he was supposed to say "I do" to my sister. And his lips were on mine. How did I end up in the arms of my own sister's groom? It all started three months ago...