Chapter 2

I was eight years old when I first stepped into the Jones mansion—clutching the hem of my mother’s skirt.

She and Carlo Jones, the father of the twins, had been old friends. He used to visit our tiny apartment with gifts, always checking on my mother when things became too heavy for her to carry alone.

After my mother took her own life—when depression and heartbreak from my father’s infidelity finally crushed her—Carlo didn’t hesitate. He brought me into the Jones household, not legally, not on paper, but with a kind of warmth that felt more binding than documents.

And the moment I arrived, two boys ran down the grand staircase, identical faces lighting up in curiosity.

Damien and Marc.

They were my first real friends.

We played in the gardens until sunset, chasing each other around the fountains, building forts out of blankets in their giant playroom. They used to argue over who got to give me their jacket whenever I felt cold.

Damien would drape his over my shoulders with a soft smile. Marc would huff like he wanted to complain but always ended up offering his too.

And whenever I cried at night, missing my mother, both boys snuck into my room—one handing me water, the other whispering jokes until I laughed again.

They cared for me. Fiercely. Tenderly. As if my sadness made me theirs.

But things changed when we reached high school.

The twin boys who once held my hands on both sides had grown into men—sharp-jawed, taller, deeper-voiced. And suddenly… the way they looked at me wasn’t the same anymore.

Damien became gentler, more protective. He waited for me after class, carried my bag, and always walked on the side of the sidewalk closest to the street. He was warm. Reliable. Steady.

Marc was different. Brooding. Intense. Quick to temper. He’d fight with boys who stared at me too long, pull me away from crowds, and glare at Damien whenever I laughed at his jokes.

The rivalry between them grew into something ugly.

I remembered one night clearly.

We were seventeen, standing behind the old tool shed. Damien had tried to hold my hand for the first time. I let him.

Marc saw.

“Of course,” Marc had spat, fists clenched. “Of course you’d pick him. Golden boy Damien. Perfect Damien.”

“Marc, stop,” I’d tried to say.

But he shoved Damien’s shoulder. Damien shoved back. And then they were fighting—wild, punching, yelling. Years of resentment exploding right in front of me.

Because Marc was the black sheep of the family. He skipped classes. Got into trouble. Stayed out late. While Damien was every parent’s dream—obedient, responsible, the heir everyone trusted.

Even Carlo used to say, “Marc needs discipline. Damien is the one fit to lead the family.”

And Marc knew it. Felt it. Lived with that shadow all his life.

Maybe that’s why he wanted me—because Damien wanted me too.

But I never saw Marc that way. My heart had always belonged to Damien.

After that night behind the shed, Marc stopped talking to me. Avoided me. Couldn’t even bear to look at me.

And then six years ago… the yacht accident.

Marc died. Or so I’d been told.

I cried for weeks—not because I’d loved him romantically, but because he had been my childhood, my memory, my family. I blamed myself for choosing between them, for being the reason they drifted apart.

And now—

Now he was alive.

And pretending to be Damien.

And had been in my bed. My life. My home.

My mind spun, and I didn’t realize I was shaking until a voice sliced through the fog:

“And where is that woman? Isn’t she supposed to be here?”

I flinched. I wasn’t ready to face the twins—not either version of them. So I hurried down the hallway, forcing my breaths to steady as I rushed back to my room.

I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, pressing trembling fingers to my lips. Act normal. Pretend you know nothing. Pretend you didn’t hear a thing.

I smoothed my dress. Fixed my hair. Bit my lip until I tasted metal.

A knock echoed behind me. Before I could even move, the door swung open.

Damien. No. Not Damien.

Marc.

He walked in with that easy, confident stride—the one I used to mistake for Damien’s but now recognized far too clearly.

He cupped my cheeks and kissed me before I could dodge.

“Hey, love. What’s taking you so long?” he murmured against my lips. “I want you beside me tonight. I have a surprise for you—you’re going to love it.”

I forced a thin smile, pretending to lean into him while silently praying he didn’t feel how tense my body was.

“A surprise?” I whispered.

He grinned, brushing his thumb over my bottom lip. “Mm-hm. But you have to come outside first.”

I nodded, playing along.

When we stepped out to the patio, music rose from the speakers, lights glowed across the yard, and people cheered because Carlo was about to make a speech.

But then—The crowd parted.

And the man I once thought my husband—the real Damien—walked toward me with a gentle, almost hesitant smile.

“Hello,” he said softly, extending a hand. “I’m Marc. I’m… alive. I survived the accident because someone saved me. I’m sorry for everything. I didn’t mean to disappear.”

My breath hitched at the lie. He was posing as Marc—for my sake. For my sanity. For the complicated disaster his twin had created.

I bowed my head, voice trembling. “I’m sorry too… for being such an ass back then. I hope we can be better friends again.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but a high-pitched voice interrupted.

“Hey there, stepsister!”

Sofia. She threw her arms around me as if we’d grown up braiding each other’s hair, not as if her mother destroyed mine.

I smiled tightly. “Hi, Sofia. You’re here.”

The real Damien pretending to be Marc said, “Yes, actually. This is also the news I want to tell, we’re gonna get married. And we’re gonna all be a happy family.”

“Great,” I just responded.

The night blurred after that—music, conversations, laughter I couldn’t feel. My thoughts were a storm inside my skull as I pretended not to see the lies unraveling around me.

Later during the dance party, when the lights dimmed and people swayed under the stars, I felt a hand slide around my waist.

A mouth pressed against mine.

Deep. Familiar. Wrong.

I instantly knew who it was.

“Hey, love. Do you want to go upstairs and make love to me rather than here—”

Marc’s—no, fake Damien’s—hand slid toward my waist.

I shoved him back so hard he almost stumbled.

My heart thundered in my chest. “Stop it now, Marc. Leave me alone!