Chapter 6: The Sister’s Shadow

Elena’s POV

The morning light filters through the West Wing windows, sharp and gray with London fog. It offers no comfort. My chest is still tight from last night’s confrontation.

On the marble vanity lies a pair of long, white gloves — Alyssa’s gloves. I slide them on slowly, smoothing the silk over my knuckles. Beneath the fabric, my hands tell the truth: rough fingertips, calluses from soil and thorns. Alyssa never had a callus in her life. If Alexander sees my bare hands, the fraud shatters before the coffee cools.

A knock rattles the door.

"Mr. Sterling is waiting for you in the formal dining hall, Madam," Harris’s polite, quiet voice echoes from the hallway. "Breakfast is served."

“I will be down,” I reply, forcing my sister’s sharp, annoyed tone she uses whenever a servant dares to interrupt her morning routine.

I take one final deep breath, smooth down the skirt of a loud green silk dress I pulled out from Alyssa’s box and step into the freezing hallways.

The dining hall is on the ground floor, right where the West Wing meets the grand front hall foyer. The room is massive, dominated by a twenty-foot wooden table that looks like it belongs in an old palace. At the far end of the long mahogany wood sits my husband.

Alexander is fully dressed in a tailored, dark suit. His black shield mask is back in place, perfectly hiding the top half of his face and the jagged, silver scar beneath. He is looking down at a digital tablet. As I walk in, I see flashing red lines and stock charts glowing on the glass screen. A steaming cup of black coffee sits untouched near his elbow.

The moment my heels click against the floor, his head snaps up. His gaze slices through me. Even behind the mask, it steals my breath. He does not look like the man who collapsed in my arms during a severe panic attack just eight hours ago. He looks like the ruthless billionaire who breaks companies for sport.

“You’re late.”

“Seven minutes.”

“Time is money.”

“Don’t waste mine.”

I slide into the chair opposite him, chin high. “The estate is a freezing maze. If you want me on time, maybe you should put up a map along with your excessive security gates.”

His jaw clenches, muscle ticking near his ear. He leans back, studying me with unnerving calm.

“You’re remarkably calm this morning,” he murmurs. “After your midnight visit, I expected you to be packing your bags. Or screaming at the family lawyers. Yet here you are, dressed for a party at nine in the morning, wearing long gloves to a casual breakfast.”

My pulse hammers under the silk. I keep my hands perfectly still on the napkin.

“A Vance daughter does not look messy, even in a prison,” I snap, mimicking Alyssa’s pride. “And the gloves—the air in this mansion ruins my skin.”

Harris silently steps forward, pouring a cup of hot tea for me. I lift the porcelain cup with covered hands, taking a small sip, keeping my face completely blank.

Alexander does not touch his food. He leans forward, shadow stretching across the tablecloth. His voice drops lower, colder.

“You never wore gloves to breakfast.”

“My investigators tracked you for weeks.”

“Photos. Cafés. Rings. Manicures.”

“Not once did you hide your hands.”

His tone sharpens, each word deliberate.

“Now you cover them in silk.”

“Why?”

“What exactly are you hiding?”

The silence is suffocating. My pulse pounds against the fabric.

His masked gaze lingers, sharp as a blade. The silence stretches, pressing down on me until even the ticking of the antique clock on the wall feels deafening. Harris shifts quietly near the door, pretending not to notice the tension, but I catch the way his eyes flicker nervously between us.

I force my spine straight, but inside, panic claws at me. Every detail matters. The way I lift the porcelain cup, the way I keep my hands perfectly still, the way I breathe. Alyssa would never falter. Alyssa would never tremble.

The gloves feel suffocating, silk sticking to my damp palms. I imagine Alexander’s investigators flipping through glossy photographs of my sister — her manicured nails, her careless laughter, her perfect mask of privilege. If he notices one difference, one flaw, the illusion shatters.

I swallow hard, forcing Alyssa’s sharp tone into my throat. I cannot let him see me break.

I set the cup down with a sharp clatter, chin high. “If my fashion choices offend your background checks, Alexander, look at your crashing charts instead. I will dress however I please.”

His masked gaze burns into me, unblinking. The air between us feels like a blade.

I rise, smooth my skirt, and march out with a cold, proud stride.

But the moment the doors close behind me, my chest caves. Breath ragged, I clutch the silk gloves tight.

He is watching me.

Comparing me to her file.

The silk burns against my palms, colder than his masked gaze across the table.

If I cannot keep this act perfect, the lie will collapse before the week is over.