Chapter 1: The Stolen Altar

Elena’s POV

“Do you, Alyssa Vance, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

The priest’s voice booms through the stone arches, echoing like thunder. Incense curls thick in the air, choking instead of a blessing. Cold sweat gathers beneath my silk gloves as my heart slams against my ribs.

Through the veil, I stare at the man opposite me. Alexander Sterling towers over the altar in a black tuxedo, his scar glinting beneath the hard shield mask that hides his eyes. A billionaire with a reputation for ruthless corporate takedowns—and right now, he believes he is marrying my sister.

A low snarl cuts into my ear. My father’s grip claws into my sleeve, his breath hot and desperate.

“Answer the priest,” Arthur Vance hisses. “If you hesitate, Alexander’s guards will see your fear. His banks will freeze our credit lines, and I’ll call the clinic to shut off your grandmother’s machines by morning. Say the words.”

Tears burn behind my eyes, but I force them back. I am not Alyssa. I am Elena—the ghost twin, hidden from society, dragged here to wear her dress. Yesterday, my grandmother’s heart failed. Fifty thousand pounds stood between her and death. My father paid the bill only to chain me to this altar.

The cathedral feels less like a holy ground, more like a cage. Golden chandeliers blaze overhead, their light bouncing off marble floors polished to a mirror shine. Rows of guests crane their necks, eager to witness the spectacle of power and wealth. They see only a perfect heiress in lace, not the trembling fraud beneath the veil. My knees threaten to buckle, but I lock them tight.

For the woman who raised me, I will endure anything. Even a lifetime in hell.

“I do,” I whisper. Inside, I am screaming.

Alexander slides the platinum band onto my finger with cold precision. His grip is iron, his masked gaze fixed on me. He does not kiss me. He simply turns, his coat sweeping past my dress like a shadow.

“Let’s move, Alyssa,” he murmurs, voice freezing the air.

We march down the aisle together. Flashes explode, the crowd cheers, and every shout feels like a lie carved into my skin. Outside, London’s chill bites through the veil as security closes in. A black limousine waits.

Alexander stops at the limousine door, a butler in a crisp suit holding it open. Yet his towering frame blocks out the light, making the servant vanish into the background. He leans close, his voice a low hiss meant only for me.

“You have a room in my house.”

“Never a place in my life.”

“Act like a ghost.”

“Or I will make you one.”

His hand guides me inside, the door slamming shut like a prison gate. The car surges forward, silence pressing down on me like a weight. I sit rigid, breath shallow, the echo of his words pounding in my skull.

Through the tinted glass, London blurs past—gray skies, wet streets, the city that raised me now fading into distance. My grandmother’s fragile smile flickers in my mind, the only anchor keeping me from shattering.

The leather seat beneath me feels cold, unyielding, as if the car itself rejects my presence. Outside, the city lights smear into streaks of gold and silver, mocking the emptiness inside my chest. Every turn of the wheels drags me further from freedom, deeper into a life that is not mine.

I am trapped. My grandmother’s life hangs on this lie, and I have just stepped into the cage of a man who could destroy me with a whisper.