The scotch in my glass was twenty years old, but it tasted like ash.
I sat in the darkness of my study, the only light coming from the moon bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
On the desk lay the discarded blonde wig. In the moonlight, it looked like the scalp of a fallen enemy.
I should have been furious. I should have called the police, annulled the marriage, and crushed the Vance family into the dirt where they belonged.
I am Alexander Thorne. My empire is built on the fact that no one—no one—deceives me.
And yet, as I stared at that fake hair, my hand was still trembling with a phantom sensation. The sensation of silk. Real, dark, chestnut silk.
I thought back to the hallway at the gala.
When I saw the woman in the sequins—the real Selene—my first instinct was disgust.
She was loud, frantic, and smelled of cheap gin and desperation. She was exactly the woman I had spent six months hating during our engagement.
But then, I looked at the other one.
The "fake" one.
Seraphina.
When the wig had slipped, and that dark hair spilt out, it was as if a veil had been lifted from my own eyes.
Everything clicked. The reason she suddenly knew how to analyse a painting. The reason she didn't flinch when I spoke of business.
The reason her eyes held a depth of sorrow and intelligence that the real Selene couldn't have faked in a thousand lifetimes.
I hadn't married a socialite. I had married a ghost. A quiet, brilliant artist who had been living in the shadows of my house, pretending to be a brat while her soul was bleeding onto the pages of a sketchbook.
"Who are you?" I had asked her.
Now I knew. She was the "Invisible Twin." The one the Vances kept in the attic while they sold the other one to the highest bidder.
A surge of possessiveness, dark and hot, flared in my chest.
I had spent my life surrounded by people who wanted my money, my name, or my blood.
Selene was one of them. But Seraphina? She hadn't asked for a single diamond. She had been terrified of me. She had looked at me with those wide, honest eyes, even while she was wearing a lie.
I walked over to the desk and picked up her sketchbook. I flipped to the lily.
She saw the "distortion of truth" in art because she was living it.
I felt a twisted sense of gratitude toward the Vances for their treachery. If they hadn't swapped the daughters, I would be stuck with a woman I loathed.
Instead, I had been handed a masterpiece that didn't know its own value.
She wants to leave in thirty days, I thought, my jaw tightening.
I looked at the security feed on my monitor. It showed the East Wing. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands, her dark hair glowing in the lamplight. She looked small. Fragile.
You aren't going anywhere, Seraphina.
"I don't care about the land anymore. I don't care about the scandal."
I wanted to see what else was hidden behind those quiet eyes. I wanted to see her paint again. I wanted to see her look at me without the mask, even if that look was full of hate.
I reached out and touched the screen, my thumb tracing the outline of her shoulder.
"You think I'm your punisher," I whispered to the empty room.
"But you have no idea, little mouse. You've just been promoted from a temporary lie to a permanent reality."
I would keep her in this gilded cage. I would make her play the part of Selene for the world, but in the dark, when the doors were locked, she would be Seraphina. And she would be mine.
I took a final sip of the scotch. The ash was gone. It tasted like fire.
Author's Note:
HE'S OBSESSED! Alexander isn't just angry—he's fascinated. He's decided to keep Seraphina for himself, and he doesn't care if she hates him for it. Is Alexander a hero or a villain? Let me know in the comments!