Chapter 3

Sophia's POV

The sound of shouting jolted me awake at dawn.

My father's voice echoed through the house, sharp and desperate in a way I'd never heard before. I could make out fragments through my bedroom door -- "Find her!" and "Check everywhere!" and something that sounded suspiciously like cursing in Hebrew.

I threw on my robe and padded downstairs, my bare feet silent against the marble steps. The scene in the foyer looked like something from a disaster movie. My father stood in the center of the chaos, barking orders into his phone while three of his security men rushed around checking rooms that had obviously already been searched.

"What's going on?" I asked, though I already suspected the answer.

My father looked up, his face haggard. He'd clearly been awake all night. "Your sister is gone."

Gone. The word hit me like a physical blow, even though part of me had been expecting this. Isabella had made her feelings about the marriage crystal clear. But actually going through with an escape? That took a level of determination I hadn't thought she possessed.

"Gone where?" I asked, though I knew he wouldn't have an answer.

"If I knew that, would I be standing here losing my mind? She left sometime after midnight. Took nothing but her purse and passport."

I noticed the suitcases by the door -- clearly belonging to the security team, not Isabella. She'd planned this carefully. No unnecessary baggage, nothing to slow her down. Just her essentials and enough cash to disappear.

Smart girl, I thought, then immediately felt guilty for admiring her escape when it was about to destroy our family.

"Maybe she just needs some time to think," I offered weakly. "She could come back."

"She's not coming back, Sophia. I know my daughter. When Isabella makes up her mind about something, that's it."

Your daughter. Not our daughter or my daughters. Just my daughter, singular. Even in crisis, the favoritism ran so deep he didn't notice it anymore.

"Sir?" One of the security men approached hesitantly. "We've checked with all her friends, the places she usually goes. No one's seen her."

"Keep looking," my father snapped. "Check the airports, train stations, bus terminals. She can't have gotten far."

But as the hours ticked by, it became increasingly clear that Isabella had vanished as completely as if she'd never existed. By noon, my father was pacing the living room like a caged animal, his phone pressed to his ear in an endless series of increasingly frantic calls.

"Three days," he kept muttering. "The wedding is in three days."

I sat in the corner, pretending to study. Part of me felt sorry for him -- seeing the great Abraham Cohen reduced to this panicked state was almost painful. But another part of me, a part I wasn't proud of, felt a twisted sense of justice. For once, his precious Isabella had let him down spectacularly.

This has nothing to do with me, I reminded myself firmly. This is Isabella's mess, not mine.

But the knot of anxiety in my stomach kept growing tighter with each passing hour.

Around two o'clock, my father suddenly stopped pacing. He grabbed his keys and headed for the door without a word of explanation. I heard his car roar to life in the driveway, tires squealing as he sped away.

He was gone for exactly forty-seven minutes. I know because I watched the clock, counting down each minute.

When he returned, something had changed. He walked directly to me, his footsteps measured and deliberate.

"Sophia," he said quietly. "I need you to come to my study."

In our house, being summoned to the study meant serious business. It was where he conducted his most important phone calls, where he met with lawyers and accountants, where family discipline was administered.

I followed him down the hallway, my feet feeling like lead weights. He gestured for me to sit in one of the leather chairs facing his massive mahogany desk, then closed the door behind us with a soft click.

In the study, he didn't speak immediately. Instead, he placed a call to the Romano family. I heard him use a cautious tone: "Sir, regarding the marriage arrangement, there's a small change that needs to be discussed..."

A deep male voice came from the other end. Though I couldn't make out the specific words, the tone clearly turned dangerous.

After my father hung up, sweat had formed on his forehead.

"They won't accept a substitution," he said, his voice trembling. "The Romano family made it clear that if it's not Isabella herself, the entire agreement would be considered deception, and the consequences..."

He didn't finish, but we both knew what the consequences would be.

"So now there are only two choices," he looked at me. "Either we find Isabella, or..."

"Or I impersonate her." I finished the sentence for him.

"You and Isabella are identical twins. Exactly identical. Same height, same weight, same facial features. The Romano family has never met either of you in person."

The bottom dropped out of my stomach. "Daddy, no."

"You could easily pass for her. Take her place."

"No." The word came out sharper than I'd intended, but I didn't care. "Absolutely not."

My father leaned forward, his hands clasped on the desk. "Sophia, listen to me—"

"I said no!" I stood up so quickly the chair rocked backward. "I'm not doing this. I'm not marrying some stranger just because Isabella ran away."

"You would be saving this family—"

"I have a fiancé!" The words exploded out of me. "I'm marrying Michael next month. We have plans, a future together. I'm not throwing my life away because your precious Isabella couldn't handle her responsibilities."

My father's face hardened. "Your 'plans' with Michael are a luxury we can no longer afford."

"They're not a luxury, they're my life!"

I thought about Michael's warm smile, the way he made me laugh, the quiet happiness we'd built together.

"The Romano alliance is our only option," my father continued, his voice taking on that cold, business-like tone I'd learned to fear. "Without it, we lose everything. The house, the business, our family name—"

"Then let it all go!" I was shouting now, but I couldn't stop myself. "Sell everything, file for bankruptcy, start over. But don't ask me to sacrifice my entire future for your mistakes!"

"They're not just my mistakes," he said quietly. "They're Isabella's too. And now they're yours."

How was any of this my fault? I'd stayed out of the family business, focused on my studies, never asked for anything beyond tuition and basic living expenses. I'd been the good daughter, the quiet daughter, the daughter who never caused problems.

And now I was being punished for Isabella's rebellion.

"I won't do it," I said, my voice steady despite the trembling in my hands. "I don't care what threats you make or what guilt trips you try to lay on me. I am not marrying Vito Romano. There is no amount of pressure that will make me agree to this. So you might as well start looking for other solutions."