Chapter 6

I woke to the sterile smell of antiseptic and the steady beep of a heart monitor.

Hospital. Again.

My eyelids felt heavy, but I forced them open. White ceiling. White walls. IV drip attached to my arm. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, too bright, too clinical.

I tried to sit up, but my body protested—sore, exhausted, wrung out like I had nothing left to give.

What happened?

The theater. The men. Collapsing. Voices drifted from outside my room. Low. Tense. Familiar.

I froze.

"Are you insane, Damien?" Marc's voice—sharp, angry, trembling with something I'd never heard from him before. "Why would you try to kill her? You would let Sofia try to kill her? Let those men harm Elena?"

My breath caught.

The real Damien answered, voice cold, detached. "So we could be done with this pretending. I'm so done pretending to be Marc. I want it to end."

"You want her back, is that it?" Marc snapped. "You realize you don't want Sofia—"

"I just want to make things right," Damien interrupted. "Don't even act as if you care for her when you also agreed to end her at first… then just changed your mind."

The room tilted.

End me?

They wanted to kill me?

My chest tightened, breaths shallow, heart pounding so loud I thought they'd hear it through the walls. Then Sofia's voice—sweet, venomous. "It's okay. Maybe we can just frame her at your father's birthday party? Make it look like she did something terrible. Then your father would hate her."

Silence.

Then Damien: "That could work."

I pressed my fist against my mouth, biting down to keep from screaming.

My phone buzzed on the bedside table. I grabbed it with shaking hands.

Carlo Jones: Elena, I heard what happened. Are you alright? Please come to my birthday celebration. I need to talk to you, and can’t wait to see you again.

I stared at the message, vision blurring.

Carlo. The man who took me in. The man who raised me when my mother couldn't anymore.

He wanted to see me.

And yet his son wanted to kill me.

I typed back with trembling fingers: I'll be there.

But it was a lie because I’m done with this.

The next morning, Marc walked into my hospital room with flowers—white lilies, my supposed favorite. His face was painted with concern, eyes soft and apologetic.

"Love," he breathed, rushing to my bedside. "I'm so sorry. I should've been there with you. I should've protected you from those men."

I looked at him, this man wearing my husband's face, and forced myself to smile. "It's okay. You're here now."

He sat on the edge of my bed, taking my hand. "I was terrified when I saw you collapse. I thought I'd lose you."

"You won't lose me," I whispered.

He kissed my knuckles, relief flooding his features. "Good. Because I can't imagine my life without you."

Behind him, the door opened.

Damien—the real one, pretending to be Marc—stepped in. Sofia clung to his arm, her expression carefully arranged into something resembling guilt.

"Elena," Damien said quietly. "I… I wanted to apologize too. For everything at the theater. For not being there fast enough."

I stared at him. The man I actually married. The man who chose Sofia over me. The man who just last night agreed to frame me at his father's birthday.

"It's fine," I said flatly.

Sofia stepped forward, eyes glistening with fake tears. "Sister, I'm so sorry. I know we haven't always gotten along, but seeing you like that… it scared me. I don't want us to fight anymore."

She reached for my other hand. I let her take it, even though my skin crawled at her touch.

"Thank you, Sofia," I said, voice hollow. "That means a lot."

She smiled—victorious, thinking she'd won.

Marc squeezed my hand. "We're all family, right? We should be taking care of each other."

"Right," I echoed. "Family."

They stayed for another hour, playing their parts perfectly. Concerned. Loving. United.

And I played mine too.

The devoted wife. The forgiving sister. The grateful daughter-in-law.

When they finally left, I exhaled slowly, staring at the flowers Damien and Sofia had brought.

White lilies.

Funeral flowers.

How fitting.

The next few days were a blur of planning. So I did what I should have done from the beginning—I gathered proof. Photos. Documents. Messages. I hired a private investigator to dig deeper into the yacht accident, into Marc's survival, into the timeline of Damien's disappearance.

Everything pointed to the same horrifying truth: they had swapped places. Deliberately. Cruelly. And I had been the pawn in their game.

I compiled everything into a folder—evidence that would shatter the lie they'd built.

The divorce papers, including the abortion certificate.

I would deliver it all to Carlo on his birthday. A gift. A reckoning.

But first, I had to play along

The morning of Marc's business trip, I drove him to the airport. He held my hand the entire way, thumb brushing over my knuckles like he actually cared.

"I'll miss you, love," he murmured as we stood outside the terminal.

I smiled. Forced. Practiced. "I'll miss you too."

He kissed me—deep, possessive, the kind of kiss meant to mark territory.

I kissed him back.

When he pulled away, his eyes searched mine. "When I get back… let's talk about the baby. Father wants one. And honestly? So do I."

My stomach twisted, but I nodded. "Okay."

He grinned, relieved, and kissed my forehead. "I love you, Elena."

"I love you too," I whispered.

Liar. Liar. Liar.

I watched him walk through security, waving one last time before disappearing into the crowd. I waited until his plane took off.

Then I drove to my own terminal.

My manager was already waiting, ticket in hand. "You ready?"

I nodded.

I boarded the plane—first class, window seat. As we climbed higher, breaking through the clouds, I pulled out my phone.

One by one, I deleted everything. Photos of us. Messages. Contacts. Memories.

Every trace of Elena Jones—the wife, the daughter-in-law, the woman who gave up everything for a man who never existed.

Gone.

I watched the city shrink below me, becoming nothing but lights and shadows.

Somewhere down there, Marc thought I was waiting for him.

Somewhere down there, Damien thought he could still control me.

Somewhere down there, Sofia thought she had won.

But I was already gone.