The days stretched into each other like a maze with no exit. Isla found herself pacing the penthouse corridors, trapped within the sterile beauty of her gilded cage. Every night, she replayed Damien's words, the letter to Selene, and the suffocating sensation that she was merely living someone else's life.
When she confronted Damien again, his response was always a careful dance of half-truths.
"We fell in love quickly, Isla. You wanted a small, private ceremony. That's why there are no photos."
"What about my family? Why haven't they called? Why haven't they visited?"
"They're abroad. They're unreachable for now."
"Why don't I remember them? Not even a single face?"
"Memory loss is cruel. Give it time."
His answers placated her just enough to dull her desperation, but not enough to silence the gnawing ache of doubt.
One evening, while wandering through the house in restless frustration, Isla stumbled upon a grand piano tucked into a quiet sunroom. Her fingers grazed the ivory keys, and without thinking, she sat down. A melody slipped from her fingertips, familiar and haunting.
Her breath caught.
How did she know how to play?
The music poured from her like water from a broken dam. Her hands moved with certainty her mind couldn't grasp. As the final note lingered in the air, she realized Damien had been standing in the doorway, watching her.
"You remembered that?" he asked softly.
"I don't remember anything. But my hands do."
"You used to play when you were upset."
"Did I? Or did she?"
His expression flickered, but he didn't answer.
"Who is Selene?"
"Drop it, Isla."
"I can't."
Damien walked away, leaving her alone with the aching silence.
That night, sleep was impossible. Her dreams were a carousel of fragmented images—a veil slipping from her head, a woman in the distance with her face, running away, a hand reaching for hers and pulling her into darkness.
She awoke breathless, the sheets tangled around her. The fragments were too vague to stitch into a memory, but the weight of them lingered.
She needed answers.
The next day, she slipped into Damien's study while he was out. She scoured the drawers and shelves until she found a slim, locked box hidden beneath financial papers. She picked the lock with a hairpin, her hands steady despite her racing heart.
Inside were documents, photographs, and a plane ticket. Her gaze locked on one photo that made her entire body go cold.
It was her.
But not quite.
Her hair was shorter. Her expression more hardened, more fierce. Written on the back of the photo in delicate handwriting was a single name: Selene.
Twins.
Her knees buckled, and she sat hard on the floor.
I had a sister.
Why didn't he tell me?
The next document confirmed what she feared. The plane ticket was for Selene Blackstone—a one-way flight that departed on Isla's wedding day.
Selene had run.
And Isla had taken her place.
The letter she found now made brutal sense. Selene was supposed to be the bride, but she vanished. Isla had been substituted. Maybe she had agreed. Maybe she had been forced. But one thing was clear—Damien knew the entire time.
Isla shoved the documents back into the box and relocked it, her mind spiraling. She had to confront him. She had to force the truth from him.
That night, over a quiet dinner, she asked him plainly. "Who was supposed to marry you?"
Damien's fork froze mid-air, his facade slipping just slightly. "You did."
"No," she said, her voice cold. "Who was supposed to marry you? Before the accident. Before the lies."
He set his fork down with a soft clink. "Selene."
The confession hit her like a tidal wave.
"Why me?"
"Because you were there. Because you agreed."
"Did I? Did I really agree?"
"You said yes, Isla. You said you'd help."
"Help who? You? Her?"
He looked away, jaw tightening. "Your father owed powerful people. The wedding was the price. Selene was meant to pay it, but she vanished. You stepped in."
"But why can't I remember?"
"The accident took that from you."
"Or you did."
Damien stood abruptly. "Do you really think I would erase your memory?"
"I don't know what you're capable of."
His expression was unreadable as he left the dining room.
That night, Isla stared out over the city from the balcony, the wind tangling her hair. Was she a willing participant in this masquerade? Or had she been manipulated from the start?
And most of all—where was Selene now?
A fire ignited in her chest. She would find her sister. She would reclaim her life.
Even if Damien tried to stop her.