Chapter 3

“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!”

Music thumped around us, but the world narrowed to the two of us.

He blinked, eyes widening in an exaggerated display of innocence. “Elena… sweetheart, what are you saying?” His voice trembled with hurt—so obviously staged. “I’m your Damien. Your husband. Why are you suddenly mentioning Marc?”

He even placed a hand over his chest, like I’d struck him. Fake. Every bit of him was fake.

A few guests paused their dancing. Someone lowered their drink.

“Did you miss him?” Marc—pretending to be Damien—lowered his voice, but loud enough for those around us to catch it. “Is that what this is? You saw him, and now you’re confused again?”

“Don’t twist my words,” I hissed.

He took a step closer, and I stepped back.

“Elena,” he said, voice shaking just the right amount to look wounded, “I’m trying here. I’m really trying. But you—why are you pushing me away like I’m a stranger to you… just because Marc came back? Do you like him… did you regret—”

“Because you are,” I yelled.

His eyes darkened for a split second, but he masked it quickly. “What are you saying?”

I swallowed, gathering every ounce of courage left inside me.

“Because you are not Damien,” I said louder. “You are Marc. Stop lying to me.”

The crowd gasped. The world seemed to freeze for half a heartbeat. And that was when the real Damien—wearing Marc’s identity—walked toward us, calm, composed, shoulders squared like the heir he was always meant to be.

“Elena,” he said carefully, “what’s happening here?”

Before I could speak, Sofia’s shrill, triumphant voice cut through the air.

“Oh my God,” she scoffed, stepping beside him. “You were thinking about my fiancé again, weren’t you?”

I stared at her. “What?”

She smirked. “Don’t deny it. Everyone knows you’ve never gotten over Marc… and maybe regretting choosing Damien. I mean, you told me that back then, you were torn between them. Now that you learned he survived and is with me, you’re losing your mind.”

“That’s not—”

“Can’t believe you can’t even tell them apart,” she continued with a cruel laugh. “Or is it because you always wanted Marc? You’ve always been obsessed with him, right?”

“I haven’t—That’s not—”

The real Marc—pretending to be Damien—lifted a hand, interrupting me sharply.

“Enough,” he said in an exhausted voice, but it was a performance again. “Elena, please. Don’t be like this.”

“I’m telling the truth—”

“Just stop,” he said, shaking his head like I was embarrassing him. “Please. Can you stop acting like this? You rejected me, right? Now that I’m happy, you’re making a scene on your birthday… to get their sympathy?”

It was a dagger straight to the heart.

The music didn’t cover the humiliation swallowing me whole. The whispers. The stares. The disbelief on every face.

I felt the air leave my lungs.

I turned and walked blindly inside the house, heat scorching my cheeks, vision blurring. No point in arguing. I didn’t care where I went—I just needed walls, silence, anything to keep myself from screaming.

I pushed into the nearest bedroom—my room—and locked the door with shaking hands.

My body trembled. But I felt him before he entered.

Damien. The real one.

He opened the door quietly, closed it behind him, and leaned against it like he’d been carrying the weight of the whole night.

“Elena…” he said, rubbing his forehead. “Come on. Are you trying to ruin your own party?”

I stared at him as if seeing a ghost. Because in a way—he was.

“You’re causing a scene,” he continued. “Dad’s on his way here. If he hears what you said—if he learns you thought I was Marc—what do you think will happen when he had always wanted you to marry me? We’re the ones destined to me. You’re hurting me! Why—”

“Why?” My voice cracked. “Why did you lie to me, Damien? Why did you have to fake—”

A scream tore through the yard.

Sofia. We both froze.

But Damien didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t look at me.

Didn’t finish my sentence.

Didn’t explain.

Didn’t choose me.

He rushed out the door like he had been waiting for that scream all his life. He ran to her.

The door slammed.

The silence that followed was deafening.

I stood there for a long moment, as if my body had turned to stone. Then my legs gave out, and I sat at the edge of the bed, pressing both hands to my stomach.

“I’m sorry, baby…” I whispered through tears that stung like acid. “I don’t think you need to live in this world.”

My heart cracked cleanly in half. Because I knew what kind of world this was.

A world where truth could be twisted.

Where love could be swapped like identities.

Where the man I loved could leave me mid-sentence—to chase another woman.

I forced my hands to move.

Reached for my phone and wiped my face with the back of my shaking wrist.

There was only one thing left—one thing I could still control.

I dialed the number.

The line rang once.

Twice. Then clicked.

“Good evening,” a professional voice said. “This is Attorney Ramos’ office.”

My voice was raw, but steady.

“This is Elena Jones,” I said. “I’m calling because… I’m filing for divorce.”