THE BILLIONAIRE'S BURIED TWIN

You're probably wondering how a cleaner ended up in a ballroom full of billionaires wearing a dead woman's dress.

So am I.

The chandeliers above me drip with crystals. Light catches on every surface, throwing little rainbows across the marble floor. The champagne flute in my hand is cold against my fingers. I don't drink. I just hold it because everyone else is holding one, and right now, fitting in is the only thing keeping me alive.

Across the room, Julian Blackwood raises his glass at me. His smile doesn't reach his eyes. It never does. He's watching me the way a cat watches something small and wounded, waiting to see if it'll run.

I don't look away. Foster kid rule number one: never show fear. Even when your heart is slamming against your ribs. Even when you're wearing a dress that cost more than every paycheck you've ever earned combined.

Julian's smile widens. He mouths something across the crowd. Two words.

Almost time.

My stomach drops. I don't know what he means. But I know it's not good.

I wasn't supposed to be here. Six weeks ago, I was scrubbing toilets in this same building. Now I'm wearing his dead wife's name like a second skin, and the walls of this glittering cage are closing in.

The man beside me shifts in his chair. Alexander Blackwood. A billionaire and a widower. He is the reason I'm trapped in this lie. He doesn't look at me. He's staring at his own glass, jaw tight, eyes distant. He's been like this all night. Like he's bracing for something.

Maybe he should be.

I turn back to the crowd. Julian is gone.

My fingers tighten around the champagne flute.

Let me take you back to where this started. Back when I was invisible. Back before I knew I had a sister. Back before I learned that some families bury their secrets so deep, they forget they're standing on graves.

---

Six Weeks Earlier

The bathroom smelled like bleach and expensive cologne.

Elara was on her knees, elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing a stain off the marble floor. She didn't know whose bathroom this was. The penthouse was supposed to be empty. That's what the supervisor said. "Mr. Blackwood is out of town. Deep clean and be thorough."

She was thorough. She was always thorough. Not because she loved the job, but because she couldn't afford to lose it. Rent was due in four days. Her roommate had already asked twice about her half. There was no room for mistakes.

She heard the front door slam first.

Then heavy and uneven footsteps. A man's voice, slurred, calling a name she didn't recognize.

Isabella.

Elara froze. Her hands stopped moving in the water. Rich people didn't like seeing the help. It reminded them that their messes didn't disappear by magic. It made them uncomfortable. And uncomfortable rich people complained to agencies. Complaints meant fewer shifts. Fewer shifts meant she couldn't pay rent.

She grabbed her bucket and moved toward the service door on the far side of the bathroom. If she was quick, she could slip out before he made it down the hall.

She was not quick enough.

The bathroom door swung open and hit the wall with a crack that made her jump.

A man filled the doorway. Tall, broad shoulders. Dark hair in a mess like he'd been running his hands through it for hours. His white dress shirt was half-untucked, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His eyes were glassy and red-rimmed. He smelled like whiskey and something sharper underneath. Grief, maybe. Or anger. She couldn't tell the difference.

He looked at her and his face changed. The drunken haze lifted, just for a second, replaced by something raw and desperate.

"Isabella."

He said it soft, broken. Like a prayer he'd given up on.

Elara's throat tightened. "I'm sorry," she said quickly, keeping her voice even. "I was just finishing up. I'll leave."

She stepped toward the service door. His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.

Not hard but desperate.

"Don't go." His voice cracked. "Don't leave me again."

Her pulse jumped into her throat. She'd been grabbed before. Foster homes with older kids who liked to test the new girl. A boyfriend in her teens who didn't understand the word no. She knew how to pull free. She knew where to aim if she had to.

But something stopped her.

This man wasn't looking at her like prey. He was looking at her like she was the only thing keeping him above water.

"I'm not who you think I am," she said quietly, forcing her voice to stay calm. "My name is Elara. I'm from the cleaning service. I think you've mistaken me for someone else."

He blinked. Confusion flickered across his face. His grip on her wrist loosened slightly.

Then his gaze dropped to the side of her neck.

His whole body went still. The way prey goes still right before it runs.

"What—"

He reached up slowly, almost reverently, and pushed her hair aside. His fingers brushed the skin behind her ear. She flinched, but he wasn't hurting her. He was staring at the birthmark. The small, pale star she'd had her whole life. It meant nothing to her. Just a thing she sometimes remembered when she looked in the mirror.

But to him, it meant something else entirely.

"Impossible," he whispered.

His eyes met hers again. The grief was gone. In its place was something colder. Fear was creeping in.

"She's dead," he said. His voice was barely a breath. "Isabella is dead."

Elara didn't move. Didn't breathe.

The man let go of her hair and took a step back. His face had drained of color. He looked at her like she was a ghost or proof that ghosts were real.

She should have run. She should have grabbed her bucket and disappeared into the service hallway and never looked back.

But she didn't.

Because in that moment, staring into the terrified eyes of a billionaire who looked at her and saw a dead woman, Elara felt something shift inside her.

Who the hell is Isabella?

And why did she look exactly like someone who was supposed to be in the ground?