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Chapter 3: The Replacement

Auteur: Ajah success
last update Date de publication: 2026-07-28 06:39:26

"You look just like her."

Damian's voice was soft, almost reverent. He stood in the doorway of Vivian's bedroom, his silver-grey eyes fixed on her face with an intensity that made her stomach tighten. She'd been packing her bag, preparing to leave, when he'd appeared without warning.

"Like who?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

"Emilia." He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. "The same hair. The same eyes. The same way you tilt your head when you're confused." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I thought I was losing my mind when I first saw you. I thought she'd come back to me."

Vivian's grip tightened on the bag. "I'm not her, Damian. I never was."

"I know that now." He walked toward her, slow and deliberate. "But when I first found you, I convinced myself you were a gift. A second chance. A way to undo what I'd done."

"What you'd done?" She stepped back, her spine hitting the wall. "What did you do?"

He stopped a few feet away, his expression unreadable. "I told you. Emilia died because of me. I killed her. And then I spent years searching for someone who could fill the void she left behind." He paused. "I found you in that orphanage. You were sitting in the corner, reading a book, completely alone. You looked up at me with those eyes, and I knew."

"You knew what?"

"That you were meant to be with me." His voice dropped, low and intimate. "Not as a replacement. As something I could keep. Something that belonged to me."

Vivian's stomach turned. The way he said it made her feel like an object, a possession he'd acquired. There was no warmth in his words, only ownership. "I'm not a replacement for your dead sister."

"No." His gaze flickered. "You're not. You're something else entirely."

She didn't want to know what he meant by that. She didn't want to know anything else about the dark places in his mind. All she wanted was to leave, to escape this house and the man who'd stolen her life.

"I'm going to bed," she said, her voice steady despite the fear curling in her chest. "I'm tired."

Damian studied her for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. "Of course. Rest well, Vivian."

He turned and walked out, closing the door behind him. She heard his footsteps fade down the hallway, and only then did she allow herself to breathe.

---

She didn't sleep that night.

Instead, she sat on the edge of her bed, the letter from the attic spread across her lap. She'd read it a dozen times, trying to piece together its meaning. The words were faded, written in a hand she didn't recognize:

My dearest daughter, I hope this letter finds you safe. I was forced to give you up, but I never stopped loving you. I have watched you from afar, and my heart breaks every day knowing you don't know who I am. Please, if you ever read this, know that I wanted you. I never stopped wanting you. I will never stop wanting you.

There was more, but the page was torn. The bottom half was missing, leaving only fragments of sentences and a signature she couldn't read.

Vivian pressed the paper to her chest, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. Somewhere out there, her real mother was searching for her. Somewhere out there, a woman had written this letter, hoping it would reach her.

And Damian had hidden it. He'd kept it from her. He'd built her entire life on a foundation of lies.

She pulled out the birth certificate, studying the name printed at the top. The ink was smudged, the letters blurred and faded. She could make out a few shapes—the first letter, maybe a "R"?—but the rest was impossible to read. Time had worn it away, or someone had deliberately obscured it.

Her real name was lost to her now. Just like everything else.

She thought about what he'd said at dinner the night before. "You look just like her." The way he'd said it, with something like hunger in his eyes. She'd been his replacement, his doll, his perfect little sister. But she'd never been herself. Not once.

She looked at the birth certificate again, searching for any clue. The address led to an orphanage she'd never heard of. The parents listed weren't the ones who'd died in that plane crash. She had fragments, pieces of a puzzle she didn't know how to assemble.

But she had one thing. The certainty that she wasn't who she'd been told she was.

She was someone else. Someone who had a past, a history, a family that had been stolen from her. And she was going to find out who that person was.

No matter what it took.

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