Chapter 1: The Wrong Woman

The last thing Daisy Thorne remembered was the smell of lavender and the sound of her own heartbeat.

She'd been closing up her flower shop, Petals & Peace, humming along to the old jazz record she always played during her evening routine. The sun had been setting over the harbor, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. Her fingers were still dusty from repotting the new hydrangeas. Her favorite cardigan smelled like roses.

She didn't remember the van pulling up. She didn't remember the men grabbing her. She didn't remember the needle pressing into her neck.

But she remembered the fear.

It was a cold, suffocating thing that wrapped around her throat and squeezed. It tasted like copper and smelled like cheap cologne. She remembered screaming, but no sound came out. She remembered fighting, but her limbs wouldn't cooperate.

Then nothing.

Now she was waking up, and the lavender was gone.

Something soft pressed against her cheek. Silk. Expensive silk. The kind she couldn't afford on her florist salary. She blinked her eyes open, and her vision swam with blurry shapes and harsh light.

Where am I?

The ceiling was wrong. It was too high, covered in intricate molding that belonged in a museum. Crystal chandelier. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A bed so large she could stretch her arms out and not touch the edges.

This wasn't her tiny apartment above the shop. This wasn't Maine.

Daisy sat up too fast, and her head throbbed. She pressed her palm against her temple, wincing. The needle. The van. The fear.

Breathe. Just breathe. You're okay. You're alive.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet touched cold marble. She was wearing a silk nightgown—lavender, of course—that she'd never seen before. Her own clothes were gone. Her phone was gone. Everything that made her Daisy was gone.

"Good. You're awake."

The voice came from the shadows in the corner of the room, and Daisy's heart stopped.

A man stepped forward, and the air left her lungs in a rush.

He was tall—impossibly tall—with broad shoulders that seemed to fill the entire room. He wore a black suit, perfectly tailored, with no tie. The top two buttons of his white shirt were undone, revealing a sliver of tanned, scarred chest. His hair was jet black, swept back from a face that could have been carved from marble.

But it was his eyes that made Daisy's blood run cold.

Ice-blue. Piercing. Deadly.

They were eyes that had seen death. They were eyes that had caused death.

"You're going to tell me where she is," he said. His voice was low and smooth, like honey over broken glass. "And I might let you live."

Daisy opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her throat was too dry. Her brain was too scrambled.

"I—I don't understand," she finally whispered. "Who are you? Where am I?"

Something flickered in those cold eyes. Impatience. Anger.

"Don't play games with me, Valentina." He took a step closer, and Daisy flinched back against the headboard. "I'm not in the mood."

Valentina?

"Valentina who?" Daisy's voice cracked. "My name is Daisy. Daisy Thorne. I own a flower shop. I—I think you have the wrong person."

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. It was the sound of a man pushed too far.

"Two weeks," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Two weeks you've been gone. I've torn this city apart looking for you. I've killed people, Valentina. And now you're going to stand there and pretend you don't know me?"

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a photograph. He threw it onto the bed beside her.

Daisy looked down, and her blood turned to ice.

It was her face. Her exact face. The same honey-brown eyes. The same chestnut waves. The same full lips.

But it wasn't her.

The woman in the photograph was wearing a blood-red dress and a cruel smirk. Her eyes were sharp, calculating, hungry. She looked like a predator. She looked nothing like Daisy.

But they could have been twins.

"I don't know her," Daisy said, shaking her head. "I swear to you, I've never seen her before in my life. I don't know who she is. I don't know who you are."

The man's jaw tightened. He reached down and grabbed her chin, tilting her face toward the light. His grip was firm but not painful. His thumb brushed across her cheekbone, and Daisy felt a shiver run down her spine.

"You look exactly like her," he murmured, almost to himself. "But you feel different. Your eyes are... softer."

He released her and stepped back, and Daisy let out a shaky breath.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Daisy. Daisy Thorne."

"And where are you from?"

"Maine. Bar Harbor. I have a flower shop." She was babbling now, the words spilling out in a rush. "I was closing up for the night, and then there was a van, and men grabbed me, and I woke up here. Please, I don't know what's going on. I'm not whoever you think I am."

The man stared at her for a long, terrifying moment. Then he walked to the window and looked out at the city below.

"I don't believe in coincidences," he said quietly. "My fiancée disappeared two weeks ago. And now you appear, wearing her face, in her bed, in her clothes." He turned back to face her. "You're either lying to me, or something far more complicated is happening. Either way, you're not leaving this room until I have answers."

Daisy's heart hammered against her ribs. "You can't keep me here. That's kidnapping. It's illegal."

He laughed again, and this time there was something almost sad about it.

"I'm the Don of the Vitale crime family, little flower." His voice was soft, almost gentle. "In my world, the law is a suggestion, not a rule. And you're my prisoner until I decide otherwise."

Crime family. Prisoner. Fiancée.

Daisy's world was spinning. This wasn't real. It couldn't be real. Any second now, she'd wake up in her tiny apartment above the flower shop, and this would all be a nightmare.

But she didn't wake up.

"I can prove it," she said, her voice trembling. "My fingerprints. My dental records. My ID. I'm not her. I've never been her. I'm just... I'm just a florist. Please."

The man's expression flickered. For just a moment, she saw something behind the ice. Something almost like... hope?

"Florist," he repeated. "What's your favorite flower?"

Daisy blinked. "Roses. No, wait—peonies. Peonies are my favorite." She swallowed hard. "They're underappreciated. Everyone loves roses, but peonies are fuller. They smell like heaven. They're stubborn too. They take forever to bloom, but when they do, they're the most beautiful thing in the garden."

A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. It was gone so fast Daisy almost missed it.

"Valentina was allergic to flowers," he said. "She would never have known a peony from a dandelion."

He walked toward the door, and Daisy's heart lurched.

"Wait! Please, you can't leave me here. I don't know anyone. I don't have anything. I just want to go home."

He paused at the threshold and looked back at her.

"Tomorrow," he said, "you will be my fiancée. You will remember everything. You will pretend that you are Valentina Rossi, and you will fool everyone in this house." His voice was like steel. "Or you will be dead. Choose wisely, Daisy Thorne."

The door slammed shut.

Daisy heard the lock click into place.

She was alone in a stranger's room, in a stranger's clothes, wearing a stranger's face.

And somewhere out there, the real Valentina Rossi was watching.

Waiting.

Hungry.