The photograph was placed between us like evidence.
She was beautiful in a way that felt intentional—dark hair styled neatly, lips curved into a practiced smile, eyes sharp enough to suggest she knew things other people didn't. The background hinted at wealth: polished wood, soft lighting, a world that had never known hunger.
I stared at her longer than I should have.
"That's not me," I said finally.
The man across from me didn't blink.
"I know," he replied calmly. "That's why we're having this conversation."
The room smelled faintly of coffee and expensive leather. Everything in it felt deliberate, from the heavy desk to the way the blinds were tilted just enough to let in light without allowing a view inside. I didn't belong here. I knew that the moment I sat down.
I pushed the photograph back toward him. "Then you've made a mistake."
"No," he said. "We've made a calculation."
That was my first warning.
"My name is Lena Rowe," I said firmly. "I work two jobs, I don't have time for whatever game this is, and I'm leaving."
I stood.
He slid a folder onto the desk.
It stopped me cold.
Hospital stationery. My mother's name printed clearly at the top. A balance so large my chest tightened just looking at it.
I sat back down slowly.
"You've been watching me," I said.
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"Long enough to know you're desperate," he replied, not unkindly. "And careful. You don't drink. You don't post online. You don't have close friends who ask questions. You disappear easily."
I clenched my hands in my lap. "You still haven't explained why."
He opened the folder and pulled out another photograph.
This one was different.
It showed the same girl—but this time, her eyes were closed. Her skin looked pale. Still.
"She's dead," I whispered.
"Officially," the man said. "Isabelle Moreau drowned three weeks ago during a private family retreat."
I swallowed hard. "Then what does she have to do with me?"
He met my eyes. "You look enough like her to pass at a distance. With preparation, you can pass up close."
My heart began to pound. "You're insane."
"Perhaps," he said. "But her family needs time. Time to grieve privately. Time to prevent certain consequences."
"What consequences?"
He didn't answer directly. "They need Isabelle to still exist for a little while."
The meaning hit me slowly.
"No," I said, shaking my head. "Absolutely not."
"You would take her place," he continued, as if I hadn't spoken. "Live in her home. Attend a few functions. Be seen."
"I won't lie to people who lost their daughter," I snapped.
"You won't," he replied. "You'll be her."
I stood again, my legs unsteady. "This is wrong."
"Yes," he agreed. "But it's also temporary."
"How long?"
"Six months."
"And then?"
"You disappear," he said. "With enough money to start over anywhere."
I laughed, sharp and hollow. "And if I say no?"
The man folded his hands. "Then your mother's treatment becomes… complicated."
My vision blurred.
I hated him in that moment. Hated how calmly he spoke. Hated how neatly he had reduced my life to leverage.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Hale," he replied. "I represent the Moreau family."
Of course he did.
"I won't sleep with anyone," I said quickly. "I won't sign anything that traps me permanently."
He nodded. "Isabelle was not married. Her personal relationships will not be your responsibility."
"Personal relationships?" I echoed.
"There is one man you must be cautious with," Hale added. "Julian Moreau."
My pulse skipped. "Her brother?"
"Her cousin by marriage," he corrected. "He manages the estate. He knew her well."
Too well, something in my gut warned.
"He'll know," I said.
"Eventually," Hale agreed. "But by then, the situation will be… resolved."
I looked down at the photograph again.
The girl in it had everything.
I had nothing.
"I want everything in writing," I said quietly.
Hale slid a pen across the desk.
The Moreau estate rose out of the night like something unreal.
Iron gates. Long driveway. Lights glowing softly behind tall windows.
This was Isabelle's world.
And for the next six months, it would swallow me whole.
A woman met me at the entrance, her expression tight with relief. "Isabelle," she breathed.
I flinched at the name.
She hugged me before I could react, her body trembling. "You scared us."
I forced my arms around her. "I'm sorry."
The lie tasted bitter.
Inside, the house was silent except for the echo of footsteps. Portraits lined the walls—generations of faces watching me, judging me.
"This way," the woman said softly.
Halfway up the stairs, I felt it.
That sensation of being seen.
I looked up.
A man stood at the landing above, tall and still, his dark hair slightly unkempt, his expression unreadable.
He didn't smile.
Didn't move.
Just watched.
"Julian," the woman said. "She's home."
His gaze dropped to mine.
Slow. Careful. Sharp.
Something in his eyes made my chest tighten—not warmth, not relief.
Recognition.
"Isabelle," he said.
His voice was low, controlled.
As if he were testing the name.
"Yes," I replied, forcing the word out.
He studied my face for a long moment.
Then stepped aside. "Welcome back."
As I passed him, my skin prickled.
He leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper.
"You're different," he said. "And I don't believe in miracles."
I didn't stop walking.
But I knew then—deep in my bones—
This lie wouldn't fail because of strangers.
It would fail because of him.