Twelve Years As Their Fake Daughter

The certified birth record left no room for doubt.

Father: Vittorio Salvatore Romano.

Mother: Elena Marie Romano.

Change of guardianship: None.

Adoption record: None.

The clerk at the county records office printed a second copy and pressed the raised seal into the bottom corner. She slid it across the counter, but her fingers stayed on the page for a beat.

"This is all you'll need for an overseas student clearance," she said. "But I have to ask. Why did you think you were adopted?"

I stared at the two names I'd written on school forms my entire life. "My family told me I was."

By the time I reached the Romano estate in the Hudson Valley, night had fallen. Cameras tracked my car from the outer gate to the guardhouse. A security officer checked my plates before the iron gates rolled open, even though I had lived there for twelve years.

The main house blazed with light. Inside, the gallery walls displayed Bianca at every age: Bianca on her first pony, Bianca at a charity luncheon, Bianca accepting a participation plaque in elementary school. There wasn't a single photograph of me.

I used to think an adopted daughter had no business on a family wall. Now I understood that someone had made a point of hiding a biological one.

Something silver rolled across the music-room floor and struck my shoe. Bianca stood beside a shattered crystal perfume bottle, amber liquid spreading across the ivory dress she was supposed to wear at Saturday's heir's gala.

"Alessia, thank God." She grabbed my wrist. "Mom's going to lose it. This was a custom order."

For years, that tone had worked like a fire alarm. I would step in, take the blame, and put out whatever blaze Bianca had started. Elena always said the same thing afterward: a girl lucky enough to be taken in by the Romanos should know how to give something back.

I called a maid and asked her to bring down the backup gown, then arranged for the stained dress to go to a specialist cleaner. When I picked up the silver cap, a shard of glass sliced the side of my palm.

Bianca went pale at the sight of my blood.

I had always mistaken that look for disgust. With the birth certificate hidden inside my bag, I finally recognized it for what it was: guilt.

Elena swept into the room before Bianca could say anything. She took in the dress, the glass, and the blood on my hand, then placed a slim black briefcase in my arms.

"The seating plan, guest profiles, and security outline for Saturday are in there. Bianca is appearing as a junior foundation director for the first time, so redo the risk list tonight."

"I have a consulate appointment tomorrow. They asked for additional documents."

"Montrose won't revoke your admission because you're a day late." She straightened my collar with the practiced tenderness she used when she wanted obedience. "We gave you the Romano name, this home, and twelve years of protection. When the family needs you, you don't put yourself first. Right?"

That line used to make an apology jump straight to my tongue.

But Romano had never been a borrowed name.

"I'll finish it tonight," I said, taking the briefcase.

Her smile returned. "That's my sensible girl."

She left without asking about my hand.

My room occupied the far end of the north wing. It was smaller than Bianca's dressing room, but it had a lock, and for the moment that was enough. I uploaded the birth record to a new email account, photographed every page, and slipped the original into the lining of my suitcase.

On the top shelf of my wardrobe sat a black-walnut archive box. It held my medals, coding certificates, debate awards, and the letter confirming my full scholarship to Montrose Institute in Edinburgh. Elena had forbidden me to display any of them because, in her words, "Bianca shouldn't have to feel like a guest in her own home."

The east wing had an entire trophy room for Bianca. Her riding ribbons sat beneath museum lights. So did photographs from charity galas and a plaque from a school play in which she had delivered three lines.

Her mediocrity deserved a spotlight. My excellence had to be locked away.

I had once accepted that as the price of being allowed to stay. Now another possibility sat cold and hard in my chest.

They weren't afraid my success would hurt Bianca's feelings. They were afraid someone might decide I was the better heir.

I logged into the credit-union account they didn't know existed. Competition prizes, freelance translation jobs, and small programming contracts had brought the balance to seventeen thousand eight hundred dollars. It wasn't Romano money. Vittorio couldn't freeze it with one phone call.

It was enough to leave.

Bianca knocked once and opened the door without waiting. "You haven't forgotten Saturday, have you? Dad said if the gala goes well, he'll let me sit in on a family committee meeting."

"I haven't forgotten."

"You're a lifesaver." She flashed a relieved smile and disappeared down the corridor.

I opened the briefcase. Her speech sat on top. The first line read:

[As the only daughter of the Romano family, I have always understood that inheriting this name means inheriting responsibility.]

For a long moment, I pictured drawing a red line through the word only.

Instead, I uncapped my pen and fixed the clumsy opening, the weak transitions, and the false humility. They needed to believe I was still the Alessia who cleaned up every mess and asked for nothing.