CHAPTER 2

Dahlia’s POV

It had been the middle of the night. I had been asleep, curled on my side under my blanket, when I felt a hand shake my shoulder. I opened my eyes and saw her, my twin kneeling beside me. Her hair was loose, her eyes sharp with determination.

“Dahlia,” she whispered urgently, glancing at my door to make sure it was closed. “Wake up. I’m leaving.”

At first, I thought I was dreaming. But then I saw the packed bag by her side and the way her hands trembled as she tucked her hair behind her ear.

“You can’t,” I whispered back, my voice small and frightened. “They’ll kill us if you don’t marry him.”

“I can’t do it,” she hissed, gripping my hand tight. Her nails dug into my skin as if she wanted me to feel her desperation. “I won’t marry him, Dahlia. I won’t spend my life chained to a man like Luca Romano. You know me—I’d rather die.”

I shook my head, tears filling my eyes. “Then what will happen to us? To Mum and Dad?”

Her face softened, but her eyes didn’t lose that fire. She leaned closer, pressing her forehead against mine the way she always did when she wanted me to listen. “You’ll save them,” she whispered. “You’ll take my place. Remember your promise”

And like always, I couldn’t say no to her.

Just like fifteen years ago, on that day. The day everything between us changed. The day she became the one everyone admired, and I became the shadow who followed behind. I had carried her secrets, covered for her mistakes, and bent myself into someone I wasn’t, all because I loved her too much to let her fall.

So when she asked me to promise, I did. My lips trembled, but I whispered the words anyway. I promise.

And then she slipped out of my room, out of the house, and out of my reach.

I hadn’t seen her since.

Now, standing in her empty room, the promise weighed on me heavier than chains.

My throat burned as I forced myself to look at my parents. Mum was still crying, clutching the letter to her chest like it was a lifeline. Father had stopped pacing and was staring at me, waiting for my answer with hard, cold eyes.

“I’ll do it,” I whispered.

The room went still. Mum’s sobs faltered, replaced by a shaky breath of relief. Father’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes narrowing as if he had already expected me to say it. He gave a single nod, sharp and final, like the closing of a deal.

Agreeing was the easy part. Saying the words aloud was like stepping off a cliff, knowing there was no way back up.

But the hardest part… the part that made my stomach twist and my heart pound until it hurt… was the next step.

The part where I had to put on my sister’s face and walk into the arms of the most feared man in Chicago.

Luca Romano.

And somehow convince him that I was Denise.

The next step was dressing me like her.

My hands shook as Mum brought out the gown from its box, the same gown Mr. Romano had sent over days before. Denise’s wedding dress. My sister was supposed to wear it, not me. The silky fabric glowed under the light, white and pure, but to me it looked like chains, like a prison I couldn’t escape.

Mum held it out carefully, as if it was fragile, but her eyes darted to me, studying me with a look that mixed fear and urgency. “Come on, Dahlia,” she whispered, her voice rough from crying. “We don’t have time.”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. My fingers brushed over the lace and I felt sick. The dress was beautiful, too beautiful for me. Denise would have been radiant in it. She would have smiled and laughed and made everyone stare at her, the way she always did. Me? I felt like I was being stuffed into something that didn’t belong to me.

When I slipped into the dress, it clung to my body tightly. Denise had always been slimmer than me. I wasn’t huge, but compared to her, I was the softer one. The dress hugged my waist, my hips, and my chest in a way that made it hard to breathe. I pulled at the fabric, wishing it would loosen, but it didn’t.

Mum circled me, tugging at the zipper and smoothing out the folds. Her hands were quick but trembling, like she was afraid of wasting even a second. She stepped back and looked at me, and for a moment, I thought she might cry again.

“You look just like her,” she said softly, her lips trembling.

But I didn’t feel like her. I felt trapped.

Mum sat me down in front of the mirror and started working on my face. Her fingers brushed powder onto my skin, traced liner over my eyes, painted my lips the same shade Denise always wore. She worked carefully, almost too carefully, as if painting a mask that would save my life.

I stared at my reflection, my heart thundering inside me like a war drum. My breaths came unevenly, shallow and shaky, and the more my mother painted me, the less I recognized myself. Slowly, Denise’s face began to stare back at me. Not Dahlia. Not me.

Mum noticed the look on my face and paused. She squeezed my shoulder gently, her fingers cold against my skin. “Dahlia,” she whispered, meeting my eyes in the mirror, “you’re doing this to keep us safe. That’s all that matters right now.”

Her words should have comforted me, but they didn’t. They felt heavy, like weights pressing me down.

Father hadn’t told me why Denise needed to marry Luca Romano. He never explained the deal or what had been promised. He only ever said the same words, over and over—that it was for our safety.

As Mum finished the last touches, I stared at the stranger in the mirror. My reflection no longer looked like me. It was Denise’s face staring back. Denise’s lips, painted red and perfect. Denise’s eyes, darkened and sharp with makeup. Denise’s body, wrapped tightly in her wedding gown.

But it wasn’t her. It was me. Dahlia.

The stranger in the mirror wore my sister’s wedding dress. The stranger wore her makeup. The stranger was about to step into her life, step into her fate, and marry the man she had run from.

My stomach turned as I looked away from the mirror. My hands were cold and damp, and no matter how hard I tried to stay still, they wouldn’t stop shaking.

The drive to the church felt like a blur. My body sat in the car, but my mind was far away, drowning in fear. The dress dug into my ribs and the lace scratched at my skin, making it harder to breathe. My hands clutched the fabric in my lap, and every bump in the road made my heart jump.

When we reached the church, my chest tightened. The building loomed tall and grand, its stone walls casting long shadows under the morning sun. Bells rang slowly, echoing across the air like reminders of what was coming.

My hands gripped the edge of my dress as the car stopped. My heart hammered in my chest, begging me to run, but my legs felt frozen. Mum was the first to move. She slipped out of the car quickly, gathering her shawl around her shoulders. She didn’t even turn back to me. She hurried inside, disappearing behind the tall wooden doors of the church.

That left me with Father.

He turned to look at me, his face stern, his eyes colder than ice. He didn’t speak at first. He just stared at me like he was making sure I wouldn’t break. Then finally, he said in a low, sharp voice, “Remember, Dahlia—you’re doing this for all of us. For your mother. For me. For this family. Do not forget what’s at stake.”

I nodded weakly, my throat too tight to form words.

Then the church doors creaked open. The heavy sound made me flinch.

Inside, music began to play, slow and steady, the kind that was supposed to make people cry tears of joy. But all it did was make the air feel heavier, pressing down on me until I could barely breathe.

The moment we stepped inside, all eyes turned to me. The guests filled the pews, their faces curious, their whispers soft but sharp, like blades cutting into me. They all saw Denise. They all believed I was her.

The music swelled louder. The church smelled of roses and candle wax, the air warm and heavy. My father tightened his grip on my arm and began to walk.

Step by step, he led me down the long aisle. My knees felt weak, and every step felt like I was walking into my own grave. My heart pounded harder, louder, like a war drum inside my chest.

And at the end of that aisle, standing tall and waiting with dark, unreadable eyes, was him.

Luca Romano.