INICIAR SESIÓNVictoria closed the front door carefully and locked it. Then she grabbed the wine bottle from the counter, poured herself a glass, and sat down across from Elena.
“Start from the beginning,” she said. Her voice was steady, but her dark eyes were sharp with concern. “And don’t leave anything out.”
Elena told her everything. The phone call. Isabelle’s voice on the speaker. Marcus’s words, nothing else matters. The box of photos hidden in his office. The recent pictures prove Isabelle had been alive for months.
Victoria listened without interrupting, her expression getting darker with every detail. When Elena finished, her friend drained her wine glass in one long swallow.
“That son of a bitch,” Victoria said quietly. Then louder: “That lying, manipulative son of a bitch.”
Elena’s laugh came out bitter. “I was so stupid. Five years, Vic. Five years I thought if I just tried harder…”
“Stop.” Victoria reached across the table and grabbed Elena’s hand. “You weren’t stupid. You were in love with someone who didn’t deserve it. That’s not the same thing.”
“Feels the same.”
“It’s not.” Victoria squeezed her hand hard. “Elena, listen to me. Marcus is the one who’s broken, not you. You gave him everything, and he threw it away for a ghost. That says nothing about you and everything about him.”
Elena wanted to believe that. But the voice in her head, the one that had been getting louder for five years, kept whispering that she wasn’t enough. That if she’d been better, prettier, more like Isabelle, maybe Marcus would have loved her.
Victoria seemed to read her mind. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for this. Marcus married you knowing he was still in love with someone else. That’s on him, not you.”
“He married me because I looked like her.” Elena said it out loud for the first time. “That’s why he noticed me at that gala. That’s why he asked me out. I look enough like Isabelle to be a substitute.”
She’d always known it on some level. The way Marcus would stare at her sometimes, like he was seeing someone else. The way he’d get angry when she cut her hair or wore the wrong color. The way he’d never really seen her at all.
Victoria was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, carefully, “I’ve suspected that for a while.”
Elena’s head snapped up. “What?”
“I’m sorry, I should have said something, but I…” Victoria ran her hand through her short black hair. “I saw a photo of Isabelle once. Last year, when I borrowed Marcus’s laptop to check my email. He had a folder on his desktop labeled ‘IL.’ I clicked it by accident, and…” She trailed off. “You could be sisters, Elena. The resemblance is that strong.”
Something cold settled in Elena’s stomach. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“I tried!” Victoria’s voice rose. “I dropped hints. I asked if you were happy. I suggested marriage counseling. But every time I got close to saying something, you’d defend him. You’d make excuses. And I thought—” She stopped, her voice breaking. “I thought if I told you outright, you’d hate me for it. I thought you’d choose him over me.”
The hurt in her friend’s voice made Elena’s anger deflate. Victoria had been there for her through everything. Every forgotten anniversary, every canceled plan, every moment of loneliness. She’d been Elena’s only real friend while Marcus systematically isolated her from everyone else.
“I wouldn’t have believed you,” Elena admitted quietly. “Not last year. I was still in denial.”
“And now?”
“Now I heard him say it himself. Nothing else matters compared to Isabelle.” Elena took another drink of wine. “I can’t un-hear that, Vic. I can’t pretend anymore.”
“Good.” Victoria’s voice was fierce. “You shouldn’t pretend. You should get angry. You should hire a lawyer and take him for everything he’s worth.”
“I need information first.” Elena pulled out her phone and showed Victoria the photos she’d taken. “I need to know what Isabelle’s been doing. Where she’s been. Why she faked her death. And I need to know if Marcus was in on it from the beginning.”
Victoria scrolled through the photos, her expression getting darker. “Some of these are recent. Like, last week recent.”
“I know.”
“He’s been tracking her. Stalking her, maybe.”
“Or they’ve been in contact longer than three weeks, and he’s just really good at lying.” Elena’s voice was hollow. “Either way, he’s been planning this. Planning to leave me for her.”
“Then let him go.” Victoria put the phone down and grabbed both of Elena’s hands. “Let him go, take half of everything he owns, and build a better life. You’re only twenty-seven, Elena. You have your whole life ahead of you.”
“I don’t want half of his things.” Elena pulled her hands away. “I want to know the truth first. I want to know exactly what I’m dealing with before I make any moves.”
“So you’re hiring an investigator.”
“Do you know anyone?”
Victoria was quiet for a moment, chewing her lip. Then she said carefully, “I might know someone. But Elena, if you do this—if you start digging—you need to be ready for what you might find. Sometimes the truth is worse than you imagined.”
“It can’t be worse than what I’m already thinking.”
“You’d be surprised.” Victoria pulled out her phone. “There’s something else I need to tell you. Something I probably should have mentioned before, but I didn’t think it mattered until now.”
Elena’s stomach dropped. “What?”
“Isabelle Laurent didn’t just disappear. I did some research after I saw those photos last year—just curiosity, I told myself.” Victoria scrolled through her phone. “Six months after she supposedly died, she married a man named Harrison Laurent. He was eighty-three years old and worth about two billion dollars.”
“She faked her death to marry a rich old man?” Elena felt sick. “That’s…”
“It gets worse. Harrison Laurent died six months ago. Heart attack, supposedly. Left everything to his widow—with one condition.” Victoria looked up from her phone. “If Isabelle remarries within five years of his death, the entire fortune goes to charity. But if she stays single, she keeps it all.”
The pieces clicked into place in Elena’s mind. “So she can’t marry Marcus.”
“Hey,” she said, trying to sound normal. “How’s Boston?”“Exhausting. These meetings are killing me.” He sounded tired. And something else—guilty, maybe? “How are you? What did you do last night?”Last night, when she’d been in another man’s bed. Last night, when she’d discovered what it felt like to be wanted.“Nothing much,” Elena lied smoothly. “Watched a movie. Went to bed early.”“Good. You should rest. You’ve seemed stressed lately.”Stressed. That was one word for it.“Marcus,” Elena heard herself say. “Do you love me?”Silence on the other end. Long enough that Elena’s heart started to pound.“Of course I do,” Marcus said finally. But his voice was flat, automatic. The answer you give because it’s expected, not because it’s true. “Why would you ask that?”“Just wondering.” Elena’s voice stayed steady somehow. “When are you coming home?”“Thursday, like I said. Maybe Friday if these meetings run long.” A pause. “I should go. Conference call in five minutes.”“Okay.”“Elena?”“Y
Dante set down his glass and took hers, placing it on a nearby table. Then he took both her hands in his, his touch warm and solid.“Elena,” he said softly. “You don’t have to do anything. We can sit on that couch, talk until morning, and I’ll call you a car home. No expectations. No judgment.” He squeezed her hands gently. “But if you want to forget about your life for a few hours, if you want someone to make you feel valued, and seen, and cherished, then I’m here. Your choice. Always your choice.”Elena looked up at him. At this stranger who’d shown her more kindness in three hours than her husband had in five years.She thought about Marcus in Boston with Isabelle. Thought about the email Sarah had shown her, I need you to end things with her cleanly. Thought about five years of being invisible, unwanted, not enough.And she chose herself.“I want to forget,” she whispered. “Just for tonight. I want to feel like I matter.”Dante’s eyes darkened. “You do matter, piccola. More than y
Elena’s throat tightened. “How did you—”“Because men are idiots. Especially when they’re intimidated by a woman’s talent.” His voice turned hard. “And any man who would try to diminish you like that doesn’t deserve you.”The certainty in his voice made Elena’s eyes sting. When was the last time someone had defended her? Believed in her?“You don’t even know me,” she whispered.“I know enough.” The song ended, but Dante didn’t let her go. “Dance with me again?”They danced through three more songs. Four. Five. Elena lost count. They talked between dances, about art, about the city, about nothing and everything. Dante made her laugh, really laugh, for the first time in months.He never asked about her life. Never pried. Just existed in the moment with her, like the outside world didn’t matter.By the time they took a break, Elena’s feet hurt and her face ached from smiling.“Champagne?” Dante asked, leading her to the bar.“I probably shouldn’t…”He ordered two glasses anyway. When he
Monday came too quickly.Elena woke up alone,Marcus had already left for Boston. No goodbye, no kiss, just a text sent at five AM: Flight’s early. See you Thursday.Thursday. Three days of freedom. Three days when she didn’t have to pretend, didn’t have to smile, didn’t have to be the wife of a man who loved someone else.She should have felt relieved. Instead, she felt empty.Victoria called at noon. “He’s gone?”“Yes.”“Good. Get dressed. We’re going out.”“Vic, I don’t…”“I don’t care what you don’t feel like doing. You’ve been locked in that house for a week like a prisoner. You’re coming out with me, and that’s final.”Elena wanted to argue, but she was too tired. “Where?”“There’s a charity gala tonight. The Masquerade ball, very fancy, raises money for children’s hospitals. I have an extra ticket.”“I can’t go to a ball, Victoria. I look like…”“You look beautiful. You always do. You just can’t see it anymore because Marcus spent five years convincing you otherwise.” Victoria’s
The coffee shop was in a neighborhood Elena had never been to, deliberately chosen by Sarah to be far from anywhere Marcus might see them. Elena arrived ten minutes early, ordered a latte she didn’t want, and sat in a corner booth with her back to the wall.She felt like a spy. Like someone in a movie, meeting a shady contact to exchange secrets. The absurdity of it would have been funny if her entire life wasn’t falling apart.Sarah arrived exactly on time, carrying a slim leather portfolio. She ordered black coffee, scanned the shop once, old habits from her FBI days, Elena guessed, and slid into the booth across from her.“You look terrible,” Sarah said bluntly.“Thanks.”“When’s the last time you slept?”Elena couldn’t remember. “Just tell me what you found.”Sarah studied her for a long moment, then opened the portfolio. Inside were printed photos, documents, what looked like phone records. A whole life laid out in paper form.“Isabelle Laurent,” Sarah said, pulling out the top p
Elena spent the next week in a strange kind of limbo. She smiled at Marcus over breakfast, when he actually came home. She asked about his day. She played the role of dutiful wife while secretly documenting everything.Every late night. Every cancelled dinner. Every lie.The investigator Victoria had recommended was a woman named Sarah Chen. Forty-five, former FBI, with a reputation for discretion and results. She’d come to the house three days after their phone call, declined Elena’s offer of tea, and gotten straight to business.“I need to know everything,” Sarah had said, pulling out a tablet. “Names, dates, places. The more details you give me, the faster I can work.”Elena told her about Isabelle. About the phone call. About the box of photos. About Harrison Laurent and the inheritance with strings attached.Sarah had taken notes without expression, occasionally asking clarifying questions. When Elena finished, the investigator had studied her for a long moment.“This is going to







