The ropes cut deeper into my wrists as he stepped closer, each sound of his polished shoes against the marble floor tightening the knot of dread in my chest. The room was too quiet, the kind of silence that made every breath loud, every heartbeat thunderous in my ears.

He smelled faintly of whiskey and cedar, sharp and intoxicating, but beneath it was something darker, violence, barely leashed. His shadow swallowed me whole when he stopped in front of me.

Then his hand shot out, wrapping around my neck.

The shock of his touch made me gasp, cold fingers squeezing just enough to remind me how easily he could end me. My pulse hammered against his grip, begging for air.

"You still remember how you held me in bed, right?" he said, voice low, thick with accusation.

My lungs burned. I clawed for words, my throat straining against his hold. "I've... never met you before," I cried, tears slipping hot down my cheeks. "I would never, I have never been in your bed!"

His gaze sharpened, the fury there slicing me open. His thumb pressed harder against the hollow of my throat. "You say that," he sneered, "because it's your usual job."

The words struck harder than his grip. Shame, anger, fear, everything collided inside me until my body moved before I could stop it. My hand shot up, palm connecting with his cheek in a sharp, resounding crack.

The sound echoed in the vast chamber. My own hand stung from the force.

"How dare you," I spat, my chest heaving. "How dare you call me that!" My tears blurred him into shadows, but my rage burned through the haze. "Are you drunk? Blind? You're mistaking me for someone else, and I will not stand here crying while you call me a slut!"

For a heartbeat, the world froze. His face didn't move. His dark eyes locked onto me, unreadable.

Then his jaw ticked.

"You dare..." His voice was a storm breaking, the warning crack before lightning strikes. Every inch of me trembled, though I forced myself to stay still, my chin lifted despite the terror crawling through me. If he wanted me to beg, he would have to kill me first.

But then, he did the strangest thing. He let out a slow breath, unclenching his jaw. His fingers loosened around my throat. And then he laughed.

It wasn't kind. It wasn't a relief. It was sharp, mocking, edged in danger.

"Ahh..." he drawled, shaking his head as though amused by a child's tantrum. "So. Let me ask, what's your new name?"

I blinked through the blur of tears. "That is not your concern," I snapped, though my voice cracked. "Let me go. Kidnapping is a very serious crime."

"Crime?" He tilted his head, his lips curving, but there was nothing warm in it. "You think the law protects women like you? Fine. Tell me your name, and I'll consider it."

The rope dug into my skin as I straightened, swallowing down the tremor in my chest. "Silesia," I whispered. Then louder: "My name is Silesia."

For a moment, silence stretched. His brows lifted. And then, he laughed again, louder this time. A deep, dangerous laugh that rolled through the room.

He covered his face with one hand, shoulders shaking. "So you didn't just change your personality but also your name overnight."

My heart sank. He thought I was mocking him.

"What are you talking about?" I demanded, my voice raw.

His hand fell away from his face. His eyes were darker than ever, fixed on me with a predator's hunger. "So you're saying you didn't sleep with me?"

"No!" My voice rang too loudly in the chamber, breaking on the edges of panic. "Like I said, this is the first time I've even been in this city."

"Ah, I see..." His voice shifted, low and smooth, like the edge of a blade drawn slowly. "I was going to give you a different punishment. But since you claim you haven't slept with me..." He leaned forward, his smile cruel. "Why not refresh your memory?"

The words sliced straight through me. My stomach churned cold. "Wh... what?" I barely breathed.

He stepped closer. One, two, three strides, until he towered over me again, his shadow swallowing the light. Fear clamped around my ribs, crushing me.

My chest rose and fell too fast, air scraping against my throat. The scent of him, rich whiskey and steel, smothered me. My back pressed against the table, nowhere left to retreat.

"You don't know what I'm talking about?" His tone mocked innocence. He leaned down until his breath was hot against my ear. "I'll remind you."

My body shook. "No...please..I'm not her! You have the wrong person!" My voice cracked, breaking into sobs.

But he didn't stop.

---

The ropes were ripped free, but not in mercy. His hands seized my wrists before I could even think of escape, slamming them into the silk sheets stretched across the massive bed. The fabric was cold, too smooth, burning against my skin as though it mocked me with its softness.

I kicked, twisted, thrashed like a wild thing caught in a hunter's snare. My sobs scraped raw against my throat.

"Please," I sobbed, my throat raw, scraped from fear and the desperate cries I'd made earlier. "it's not me."

 His hand, iron on my wrists, tightened. "Do you think I'm a fool?" he hissed, his voice a low, dangerous growl that vibrated through the mattress. "You played me once. You won't play me again."

 The taste of my tears, salty and bitter, lingered on his lips. How could he know? How could he confuse me with her? Doubt, sharp and unwelcome, slid like a crack into his certainty, a fleeting flicker in the depths of his obsidian eyes. I saw it, a momentary hesitation, gone in a blink. Then he forced his lips onto mine, a brutal, punishing kiss. His mouth was hard, demanding, tasting of something metallic and dark. My stomach churned. I tried to pull away, to turn my head, but his grip was absolute. My mind screamed, but no sound escaped.

 Then, a sudden, desperate surge of defiance. My teeth found purchase, closing down hard on his lower lip. A sharp gasp tore from his throat. I tasted blood, warm and coppery, mixing with my tears. His grip faltered, just for a second.

 He pulled back, a low growl rumbling in his chest. His lip, split and bleeding, gleamed crimson against his pale skin. His eyes, still blazing with fury, now held a glint of surprise, of pain. He dragged his hand down, ripping the flimsy fabric of my dress. A tearing sound, loud in the sudden silence. The thin cotton gave way easily, exposing my shivering body to the cool air, to his burning gaze. He tore at my undergarments, the cheap lace shredding under his impatient fingers. My breasts, small and pale, were suddenly bare, nipples tightening in the chill. He stripped me bare, then himself, his hard self springing free from the confines of his trousers, thick and angry.

 He pressed down, his weight crushing, pinning me. My legs were trapped between his, my body splayed beneath him. He grabbed my hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, pulling me up, angling me. I squeezed my eyes shut, a silent plea.

 Then, the first searing pain. A blinding, white-hot agony tore through me, ripping from me a cry I didn't know I was capable of. The sound clawed its way out of my chest, high and broken, shattering the cold air of the room. A raw, animalistic shriek. My body arched, spasming, not with pleasure, but with a tearing, burning pain that consumed my entire being. I felt a wet, hot gush, something warm and sticky between my legs.

 For the first time, he stilled. His weight remained, but the frantic, brutal thrusting ceased. His gaze dropped to my face, confusion flickering in the depths of his fury. My tears weren't calculated. They streamed down my temples, soaking the silk pillow, hot and endless. My body trembled, not with guilt but with shock, with something too raw to fake.

 "You..." His voice cracked, the iron faltering, replaced by a guttural sound of disbelief. He pulled back slightly, just enough to see. His eyes widened, fixing on my inner thighs, on the gush of blood that stained the white silk sheets beneath me, seeping into the fabric, a stark, undeniable crimson. "You're bleeding?"

 I curled inward, arms flying up to cover myself, though it was useless. My body shivered like a wounded bird, every muscle trembling, every nerve screaming. The sobs wouldn't stop, spilling from me like a broken dam, ragged gasps for air.

 His grip loosened. Slowly. Hesitantly. Matteo Loki, the man who broke others for sport, hesitated. I saw it. A flicker of doubt in those obsidian eyes, a crack in his cold facade. His chest rose and fell once, sharply, like something inside him had shifted, had been irrevocably altered. He told himself it didn't matter. I could see it in the tightening of his jaw, the hardening of his stare. Virgin or not, thief or not, he wanted me to pay. But beneath that steel, something gnawed at him. Something had fractured his certainty.

 The door creaked, a soft, almost imperceptible sound that cut through the thick tension.

"Sorry, boss. Your brother is here," one of the guards muttered from the doorway.

Matteo's head snapped up. His gaze cut to me one last time, a warning, a promise, and then he straightened. He dragged his shirt over his shoulders, buttons snapping into place with precise, sharp movements. His tie hung loose around his neck, but he didn't bother to fix it. He didn't need to. Power clung to him like skin, even half-dressed.

His eyes lingered on me, curled up on the bed, my torn dress hanging in ribbons around me, shame clinging to me like sweat. Then he turned and strode out, his footsteps a storm retreating down the hall.

"Lock her up," he ordered flatly. His voice carried no hesitation, no softness. Just command.

The men didn't hesitate. Rough hands seized my arms, yanking me from the sheets. I stumbled, legs weak, knees scraping the marble as they dragged me through a maze of shadowed corridors. My feet, bare and raw, slapped against the cold floor. Each step echoed, hollow and merciless.

We stopped at an iron door, bolted and scarred with age. One of the guards shoved it open, the hinges shrieking in protest, and the stench of damp stone hit me. Before I could resist, they threw me inside.

The door slammed shut.

The clang reverberated through my bones, louder than thunder, rattling my skull. Then silence.

---

The room was barely a room at all. Four stone walls, rough and uneven, scraped gray against the dim glow of a single bulb that flickered overhead. The air smelled of rust, mold, and something sour - despair, soaked into the walls from all who'd been here before me.

A narrow bed sat in the corner, its thin mattress sagging, sheets stiff with dust. Beside it, a bucket, half-hidden in shadow, told me what kind of "guest" I was meant to be.

No window. No clock. Only the hum of the light and the sound of my own ragged breathing.

I sank onto the bed, curling inward. My body trembled, muscles screaming from the night's violence. Every bruise pulsed like fire beneath my skin. My wrists throbbed raw, angry lines where the ropes had bitten deep. My lips were split, my throat scraped from screaming until my voice had broken.

But worse than the pain was the silence.

The silence swallowed me whole.

"It wasn't me," I whispered hoarsely, the words cracking in the stillness. My voice sounded foreign, too small, too weak. "I don't even know you. I don't even know what you lost."

But the shadows didn't care. They devoured my words, burying them in the cold.

I pressed my hands to my face. My fingers shook uncontrollably, no matter how hard I tried to still them. Every time I closed my eyes, his face was there, those black, merciless eyes burning through me. His voice, low and rough, repeating the lie he believed as truth.

Perfume. Bed. Necklace.

A ghost wearing my face had destroyed me in one night.

---

Somewhere beyond the walls, footsteps echoed. Heavy boots. Slow. Measured. Then voices, muffled and low, trading words I couldn't make out. Guards. I had seen them before, broad shoulders, hard jaws, eyes empty of compassion. Shadows loyal to a darker shadow.

I forced myself upright, even though every muscle screamed in protest. My legs trembled as I staggered to the door, pressing my palms against the icy metal.

"Please!" My voice cracked, splintered. "You've got the wrong girl! I don't know him, I don't know anything about a necklace!"

For a heartbeat, silence. Then a chuckle drifted through the door, cruel and dismissive.

"That's what they all say."

The words hit me harder than a fist. My knees gave way, sliding me down the door until I crumpled on the floor. Tears burned hot, spilling into my palms as I covered my face.

This wasn't supposed to happen. I had come to this city chasing hope, chasing survival, chasing something, anything, better. A letter, a promise of work. A chance to start over.

But now? Now my name meant nothing. My innocence meant nothing. My life meant nothing.

Someone had stolen my face, and in return, I had lost everything.

---

Time blurred. I didn't know if minutes passed, or hours. Hunger gnawed at me. Thirst burned my throat. My body wanted sleep, but every time my eyes drifted shut, I jolted awake with the echo of his shadow pressing me down.

At some point, footsteps returned. Heavy. Slow.

I shot upright, clutching the blanket tight to my body. My breath came fast, my heart leaping painfully against my ribs.

The lock rattled, metal scraping metal. I scrambled back, pressing myself into the corner of the bed, every muscle taut with dread.

But the door didn't open.

Instead, a tray slid through a narrow slot at the bottom. The scrape of it against the stone was loud in the silence. Bread. A tin cup of water. A sliver of cheese.

My stomach twisted painfully at the sight, but pride rooted me to the mattress. I didn't move. I wouldn't crawl to the floor like an animal.

Then a voice, quiet, almost too soft to hear. "Eat. You'll need strength."

Not cruel. Not mocking.

I froze, staring at the door, but the footsteps were already retreating.

For the first time since I had been dragged into this mansion, I felt something shift. A crack in the wall of cruelty. Someone, someone other than him, didn't want me dead.

I don't remember when I ate. I don't remember giving in, crawling to the tray and devouring the bread, gulping the water so fast it spilled down my chin. Shame burned me, but survival was stronger.

I climbed back to the bed, pulling the blanket over my shoulders, the stone beneath me humming with the echo of footsteps that weren't there anymore.

And that's when I heard it.

Whispers.

Faint, muffled, as though seeping through the cracks in the walls. Two voices, deep and low, arguing.

"...not her... you're blind, Matteo..."

"...you're blaming me for your own mistakes..."

"...how am I supposed to know you'll do such a thing to her, you'll regret it..."

The voices faded, swallowed by silence again, but they left my skin prickling, my blood roaring in my ears.

Not her. Someone knew. Someone believed me.

I don't know how long I sat there, clutching the blanket, replaying those words over and over. Not her.

The bulb flickered again, buzzing louder, then steadied. The silence stretched, but my heartbeat wouldn't calm.

I thought I was alone again.

Until I heard it, the scrape of the lock turning.

The iron door groaned as it swung open, the light from the corridor spilling into my cell.

I held my breath.

And there, framed in the doorway, stood not Matteo.

But another man.

His face was the same shape, the same bone structure, but softer somehow. His eyes weren't obsidian, they were warmer, though still sharp. His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile, but not a threat either.

"I'm Matias," he said, voice low. "And I know you're not the girl my brother thinks you are."

The door creaked open, spilling light into the stone cell. My heart hammered so loud I thought it might give me away. For a split second, I expected him - Matteo, with his cold eyes and cruel mouth.

But it wasn't him.

The man standing there looked like him, yet... not. His face shared the same sharp bone structure, the same strong jaw, but softer, less carved from ice. His dark hair fell loosely across his forehead, not slicked back with control. And his eyes, oh, his eyes weren't the obsidian void that had swallowed me whole before. They held warmth, curiosity, even pity.

"I'm Matias," he said, his voice lower, smoother, carrying none of the jagged edges of Matteo's. "And I know you're not the girl my brother thinks you are."

The words stole the air from my lungs. My throat tightened, but no sound came out. My lips parted, trembling, and for the first time in hours,  maybe days, hope sparked.

"You..." My voice cracked like glass. "You believe me?"

Something flickered across his face. A hesitation. Then a small, almost imperceptible nod. He stepped closer, his footsteps softer than the guards', not meant to intimidate. His gaze dropped briefly to the bruises on my wrists, the torn fabric clinging to my shoulders. His jaw clenched, but not in anger,  in something else. Something almost human.

"I'm sorry," he said simply. The words seemed foreign on his tongue, but he meant them. I felt it. "I can't undo what he's done. But I believe you."

The apology sliced through me. I had braced myself for more cruelty, more disbelief, and instead here was... him. A twin, a shadow of the same blood, but not the same man.

For a moment, I forgot to breathe.

But just as quickly, his expression shuttered. He straightened, retreating from the doorway. The warmth in his gaze dimmed, replaced by caution. "I shouldn't be here." His voice lowered, sharp with warning. "If he finds out I've spoken to you, it'll make things worse."

"Please!" I lurched forward, my bare feet slapping against the cold stone, my hands clutching the iron bars between us. "Don't leave me here. Please, you know it's not me!"

His face twisted, pain flashing in his eyes. But he shook his head. "I can't."

And then, without another word, he closed the door. The lock scraped, the iron groaned, and the silence returned,  heavier than before.

---

Matteo Loki wasn't a man given to hesitation. His empire thrived because he acted swiftly, decisively, never second-guessing. Yet tonight, as he sat in his study with a glass of whiskey untouched in his hand, her scream echoed louder than his own heartbeat.

He had heard women cry before. Some begged. Some lied. Some even laughed through pain, thinking they could manipulate him. But hers... hers had cracked something inside his chest.

He brought the glass to his lips, but the scent of whiskey turned his stomach. With a sharp motion, he slammed it down onto the desk, glass splintering, amber liquid spilling across the polished wood like blood.

A guard appeared in the doorway at the noise, but one look from Matteo sent him retreating back into the hall.

Alone, Matteo crossed the room and yanked open a drawer. His hand closed around a thin file, and he pulled it free. Photographs slipped loose, scattering across the desk.

Porsche Wolff.

The thief. The seductress. The woman who had dared steal from him, not just his mother's necklace, but his pride.

He picked up one photo, staring at her smirk. That same golden hair. Those same lips. The resemblance was undeniable. But the eyes...

He cursed, slamming the photo face-down.

The girl downstairs hadn't looked at him with fire. She hadn't taunted or mocked. She hadn't lied with a smile. No, she had fought like an animal in a snare, trembling, desperate, her eyes filled not with defiance but with innocence.

His mind betrayed him, replaying the moment he'd stilled,  the blood, the broken cry, the way she'd whispered, "I don't even know you."

He clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened. "No... it has to be her. It *has* to be."

And yet, doubt gnawed at him like rot under steel.

Matteo dragged his hand across his face, pacing the length of the study. Every instinct screamed that he couldn't afford mistakes, couldn't afford weakness. But her voice lingered. Her scream haunted.

Finally, he stopped. His gaze hardened, obsidian once more.

He turned toward the door and barked at the command.

"Bring me every detail about her. Now."

The guard outside stiffened, then nodded quickly and disappeared into the shadows.

Matteo Loki stood alone in the silence, the untouched whiskey still staining the desk, the file on Porsche still open.

For the first time in years, he wondered if he had punished the wrong woman.

But if she wasn't the one... then who was she? Did Porsche have a twin? A sister who looked exactly like her?

If what Matias said was true...

Matteo's jaw tightened. His brother was just as furious as he was over losing their mother's necklace. Matias would never defend Porsche , not after what she did. He had known her for years. He knew her arrogance, her selfishness, her inability to play innocent. She wasn't good at acting. She wouldn't break into tears the way that girl had. She wouldn't bleed.

His chest rose sharply, a shadow crossing his face. Or was I so rough on her?

The silence cracked when the study door opened.

Matias stepped inside, his expression grim, his movements deliberate. His eyes, so like Matteo's yet carrying a different fire, flicked once to the scattered photos on the desk before pinning his brother.

"I already told you," he said, his voice low, edged with steel. "I've done the research myself. If you don't do something..." He leaned in just enough to make the threat real. "...I will."

Matteo's jaw clenched, but before he could speak, Matias turned on his heel and strode out, the door slamming shut behind him.

The room fell quiet again, but this time the silence carried a new weight. Not just doubt. Not just guilt.

---