When New York City ran its annual ranking for the Most Useless Heir and Most Outstanding Heir, my stepbrother and I still held down the number one spots on both lists. But right after the results dropped, explicit photos of my fiancée in bed with my stepbrother blew up the trending searches. There they were, right by the floor-to-ceiling window, my perfect little fiancée, the one everyone praised as a model of grace, raised strictly on three thousand rules of proper conduct, pinned down by Lucas, twisting through one humiliating position after another. Every single person in the city was holding their breath, waiting to see how I'd react. After all, the last guy who dared so much as flirt with my fiancée was still laid up in the hospital to this day. I chain-smoked all night long. I went through every single one of those thousands of photos, one by one. Dawn was just breaking over the city when Winnie finally called me to explain. "I had a little too much to drink last night," she said, "I mistook him for you. Just go out and take the blame for the photos trending, okay? If you don't, Pattinson's reputation will be ruined forever." This wasn't the first, either. This was the ninth time she'd 'mistaken' Lucas for me. Listening to that pathetic, lazy lie spill from her mouth, I didn't snap, didn't roar. I just ground my burning cigarette out right on top of her name printed on our engagement contract. "It doesn't matter anymore." Who was in the photos? Doesn't matter. Winnie Hudson? She doesn't matter either.  If she could mistake another man for me, then there was nothing stopping me from marrying another woman.