Heâs different.
Less guarded. More present.
Heâs still Adrian,the man with a calendar tighter than a noose,but lately he lingers. At breakfast. On the balcony. In the hallway outside our bedroom, he wants to say something but doesnât know how.
Itâs terrifying.
And I hate that I love it.
I should be thinking of my exit. The switch was never meant to last. But here I am, memorizing the way his eyes crease when he smiles, how his voice softens when he says my name.
Except⊠itâs not my name.
Every moment I spend with him is a lie wrapped in something dangerously close to real.
We have dinner together again. No staff. No distractions.
I make chicken in white wine sauce. He helps wash the dishes.
Heâs relaxed. Curious. Watching me like Iâm someone new, and in his eyes, I am.
âYouâve changed,â he says again.
âI told you. Iâm adapting.â
âFeels more like awakening.â
I laugh, but itâs strained. âMaybe Iâm just finally⊠seeing you.â
That quiets him.
Later, in the bedroom, he sits beside me on the bed.
âI had a dream about you last night,â he says.
I freeze. âWhat kind of dream?â
âYou were laughing. Really laughing. In a yellow dress. You hated yellow before.â
âMaybe I donât anymore.â
He leans in, fingers brushing a curl behind my ear.
âYou smell different too.â
My breath catches.
He kisses me.
This time, I kiss him back,not because I should, but because I want to.
Itâs dangerous, intoxicating, and terrifying.
He pulls away slowly.
âI want to start trying,â he whispers.
I nod.
But something coils in my chest.
Because now, the lie isnât just mine. Itâs his too. Heâs loving the wrong twin, and Iâm letting him do it.
I thought I was doing this for my family, for my father.
But now, Iâm not so sure.
The next morning, I found the onesie again.
Still hidden in the drawer where I shoved it.
Still staring at me like a loaded gun.
Someone sent it.
Someone knows.
I check the envelope again, hoping for a clue.
Nothing.
No trace, no markings. Just that message:
âGive him what he wants.â
Who would know?
Only three people know about the switch: me, Eliora, and
I freeze.
Could she have told someone?
A friend? A lover?
I tried to call her.
No answer.
I text. No reply.
Panic scratches at my throat.
I go to the one person who might know somethingâŠ.Vanessa.
I text her under Elioraâs name and ask for coffee.
She agrees.
We met at a rooftop café she and Eliora used to frequent.
She doesnât notice the difference. Not really.
Iâm good. Too good.
We order matcha lattes.
She talks about a new spa. I nod, play along.
Then I ask, âHave I been acting weird lately?â
Vanessa laughs. âSince when are you not weird?â
I smile. âNo, seriously. Like⊠secretive?â
She pauses.
âYouâve been quieter. Distant. Not texting as much. And you canceled our trip to Dubai.â
Right. I didnât even know there was a trip to cancel.
âDid I tell you why?â
She sips her drink. âJust said Adrian needed you around more.â
âAnd did I say anything⊠odd? About Adrian? Or the marriage?â
She narrows her eyes. âAre you okay?â
âIâm fine. Just checking if Iâve⊠said too much.â
Vanessa leans in.
âLook, I donât know whatâs going on, but if youâre in trouble, you can tell me.â
I shake my head. âNo trouble.â
She watches me. Long. Hard.
Then says, âYou seem different, Eliora. In a good way.â
âDifferent how?â
âSofter. Like you're finally letting someone in.â
She says it kindly, but it makes my stomach twist.
She doesnât know the truth.
But someone does.
Back at the mansion, I find Adrian in the library.
Heâs flipping through old photo albums.
âWhat are you doing?â I ask, keeping my tone light.
âLooking at family history,â he says. âMy fatherâs been on me about legacy again.â
I walk closer.
He turns a page.
Thereâs a photo of him and his uncle, Marcian. A powerful man with sharp eyes and a colder smile.
âYour father still wants an heir?â I ask.
He shrugs. âItâs not about wanting. Itâs about bloodlines.â
I studied the photo.
âDo you trust your uncle?â I ask.
He stiffens.
âNo. Not even a little.â
âWhy?â
Adrian closes the album.
âBecause if anything happens to me, and thereâs no child, he gets everything.â
I stop breathing.
âWhat do you mean?â
âMy fatherâs will. It was revised before our wedding. The business, the assets⊠if thereâs no heir, it defaults to Marcian.â
âAnd your father agreed to that?â
âHe didnât think it mattered. He thought a child would come quickly. Natural. But now, with the delaysâŠâ
He glances at me.
I look away.
If only he knew the real delay.
That the woman he married was never capable of carrying a child.
And the woman standing in front of him⊠might be his only chance.
That night, I dream of fire.
And Eliora, standing on the edge, watching me burn.
The next day, I finally heard from her.
A text. Short. Sharp.
âWe need to talk. Now.â
We met in a parked car downtown.
No makeup. No masks.
Just us.
âI got your message,â I say.
âI didnât send anything.â
My heart skips. âThe onesie? The note?â
She shakes her head. âWasnât me.â
âThen whoââ
âThatâs why Iâm here,â she interrupts. âI think someone followed me last week.â
I went cold. âWho?â
âNo idea. Black car. Tinted windows. Same street. Three times.â
âYou donât think itâs Adrian?â
âNo. Heâs too busy kissing you, isnât he?â
I ignore the jab.
âSo someone knows. And theyâre watching.â
She nods.
Then adds, âMaybe itâs time we end this.â
My chest tightens. âNow?â
âYouâve been there long enough. We agreed until the heir. But now⊠youâre getting comfortable.â
âIâm notâ
âYes, you are. Youâre falling for him.â
I donât deny it.
She scoffs.
âYou think love will protect you? When the truth comes out, theyâll both hate us.â
âThen maybe we keep it buried,â I whisper.
But sheâs already shaking her head.
âI want my life back. My husband. My name.â
âNo,â I say, firmer now. âNot yet.â
âYou donât get to decide that.â
âIâm not ready!â
She pauses.
Then, in a whisper: âI missed my period.â
Everything inside me stops.
âWhat?â
âI took a test. Positive.â
I stare at her.
âBut youâre infertile.â
She looks pale. Shaken. âApparently not.â
I sit back
, breath stolen.
âYouâre pregnant.â
She nods.
Then looks at me with eyes full of regret and fire.
âIâm coming home, Eliana. With proof.â
And suddenlyâŠ
Everything I thought I had just crumbled beneath my feet.
Sheâs pregnant. Iâm in love. And this entire house of cards is about to collapse.
The note stayed in my mind long after Adrian tossed it into the fireplace.You burned my bridge.Now Iâll burn yours.It wasnât dramatic flair. It was a vow. The kind that came soaked in gasoline, waiting for a match.Adrian changed the security codes that night.We added two more guards.The nursery window got new sensors.But still, I couldnât sleep.Because you can lock a house, but you canât lock out fear.Especially when it wears your face.Especially when it used to call you sister.---The media buzzed for days.Headlines praised the ruling.Eliana wins legal battle.Fake birth certificate exposed.Corporate heir restored.My face trended on every news app.But they didnât know the whole story.They didnât know about the voicemail Eliora left that morning.Five words.âYouâll never see it coming.âAdrian played it on repeat.Analyzed the tone. The background static. The breath before she hung up.âSheâs not done,â he said.âI know.ââSheâs still close.ââShe always is.âWe turn
The courthouse buzzed with too many voices, too many cameras, too many stares.Everyone had an opinion.No one had the truth.Adrian squeezed my hand as we entered. His jaw was tight. His suit was darker than usual. Almost funereal.Vanessa walked ahead of us, briefcase in one hand, printed affidavits in the other. She was all steel and certaintyâuntil we reached the double doors.Then she stopped and turned.âThis is not about the baby anymore,â she said. âThis is about power. Control. Legacy.ââAnd truth,â I added.âNo,â she said bluntly. âThe truth isnât enough today. You need proof. Emotion. Performance. Give them a reason to believe you. Not just the facts.âAdrian gave a slow nod.I swallowed hard and pushed open the doors.Marcus was already seated.Front row.Wearing smug like a custom-tailored suit.Beside him sat a woman I didnât recognize. Sharp cheekbones. High ponytail. Dressed in royal blue.Vanessa leaned over. âThatâs his new counsel. Civil specialist. Famous for flipp
The certificate lay between us like a confession.My name wasnât on it.Only Adrianâs.And Elioraâs.Filed. Stamped. Dated.Weeks before the court ever saw my face.Adrianâs fingers trembled as he traced the embossed seal. He kept rereading the nameâour childâs nameâas if doing so would make it disappear.âItâs real,â he said, finally. âShe got to them.ââShe forged it,â I said.âNo,â Granny corrected softly. âShe didnât forge. She manipulated. She used the truth you both handed her the night you switched. Then she twisted it into something permanent.ââBut the baby isnât hers,â I said, voice rising. âShe hasnât touched her. I carried this child, Granny!ââAnd you can prove it,â she said calmly. âBut this isnât about truth anymore. Itâs about whatâs on paper.âI stood up.Paced.Clutched my stomach.âSheâs trying to undo everything. Even now.âAdrian was already on his phone.Calling Vanessa.âFind out who helped her process this,â he said sharply. âWho filed it. Who stamped it. If a
The courthouse smelled like old books and polished fear.Marble floors. Echoing heels. A silence that wasn't silenceâit was waiting.Adrian stood to my right, tie perfectly knotted, jaw clenched tighter than his fists.Granny Elizabeth sat behind us. Unmoving. Regal. Watching everything like she had already seen it in a dream.The judge walked in. Robed. Unreadable. Carried years of law behind his eyes.He took his seat.Papers rustled.Voices whispered.Then silence again.And Eliora walked in.Same face. Same walk. But this time she looked tired.Not physically. Spiritually.Like sheâd been fighting a war no one ever trained her for, and now even the armor didnât fit right.She didnât look at me.Didnât glance at Adrian.Her eyes locked on the bench.Like the judge was her last prayer.Our lawyer stood first.He moved quickly. Precisely.Laid out the facts like a surgeon with a scalpel.Marriage contract.Pregnancy record.The sonogram timeline.The leaked messages.Christianaâs sta
The silence was the loudest it had ever been.Not even the clock dared to tick.âShe filed for adoption,â Vanessa said again, her voice low but steady. âPrivate clinic.Florida. Same day the fake sonogram surfaced online.âAdrian paced the foyer, his jaw clenched.âHow did she get approved?â he muttered.âShe hasnât been,â Vanessa replied. âItâs still under review. But the documents⊠theyâre polished. New ID. Clean record. Sheâs calling herself Serena now.âI sat down slowly, holding my belly.âSheâs building a lie,â I whispered. âA full one. A child, a name, a story. Just like she built mine. But this time, she wants proof no one can deny.âGranny Elizabeth stood by the fireplace. She hadnât spoken since the news came in. Her face was calm, but I knew that lookâa storm hiding behind quiet eyes.âSheâs racing against the clock,â Granny finally said. âBecause she knows once your baby arrives, her window closes.ââAnd what if she gets the child?â I asked.Adrian stopped pacing. âThen she
It dropped at noon.Not on news outlets. Not through a press release.YouTube. TikTok. Instagram.The Vaughan Files: Part One.Fifteen minutes long.Eliora narrating in soft tones.Aesthetic transitions. Soft piano in the background. Voice trembling just enough to seem authentic.The video opened with a childhood photoâtwo girls in matching blue dresses. The caption: âThis is how it started.âThen a slow montage.Photos. Clips. Screenshots.Her and me. Our school days. Parties. Birthday footage.She painted us as best friends turned enemies.âI loved my sister. I covered for her. But when I needed her most, she took everythingâmy name, my future, my husband.âI watched the whole thing in silence.So did Adrian.So did the internet.âShe twisted the narrative,â Vanessa muttered. âSheâs playing martyr.âGranny Elizabeth didnât blink.âSheâs turning shame into sympathy. And people eat that up.âThen came the pivot.Seven minutes in.âShe wasnât the only one who lied,â Eliora whispered.