"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.

---

  The cell door creaked open, spilling light across the damp stone floor.

Silesia flinched, curling tighter into herself. But it wasn't the mafia king who entered.

It was a woman. Middle-aged, dressed in a maid's uniform, balancing a tray and a bundle of folded cloth. Her steps were cautious, her voice even softer.

"Miss... you should eat."

Silesia's throat burned as she forced words past it. "Please... please tell him I didn't do anything. He has the wrong girl."

The maid froze. She had served Matteo Loki long enough to know the weight of his wrath... and how dangerous it was to question him. Yet looking at this trembling figure on the bed, she felt pity stir inside her chest.

Setting the tray down, she knelt and held out the bundle. "Fresh clothes. Clean yourself. You'll feel better."

Silesia's hands shook as she accepted the garments. Her body was sore, her soul heavier still. As she slipped into the simple dress, the maid's gaze lingered, the timid way she moved, the way her cheeks flushed at the smallest kindness.

So different from the woman Matteo had described.

When she was dressed, Silesia whispered, "What's his name?"

The maid lowered her eyes. "Matteo Loki. King of this city."

The name hit like ice water. King. That explained why no one at the airport had helped her. Why would the police never come? Why her screams had vanished into silence.

The maid gathered the tray and cast one last look at the girl's pale, frightened face before slipping away.

---

Next day

Matteo finally let doubt guide him. For two days, it gnawed at him like rust beneath steel. He had the file spread open across his desk, every report, every photograph of Porsche Wolff, her smirk, her sharp gaze, the arrogance that dripped from her like perfume. And then he thought of the girl in the cellar.

The way her lips trembled when she spoke. The way she flinched from his shadow. The way she had bled.

He studied her face from memory, line by line, searching for flaws in his own conviction. The curve of her jaw. The softness of her mouth. The way her eyes widened with terror instead of fire. She was too different. Too... unpracticed in the art of deceit.

So he ordered his men to dig deeper. Background checks, airport records, street surveillance,  anything that would prove him right. Anything that would confirm she was Porsche, that his rage had not been misplaced.

But the truth returned to him like a blade in the dark.

She was not Porsche Wolff.

The reports were clear. No aliases, no hidden records, no evidence of a double life. The woman downstairs wasn't a thief, wasn't a liar, wasn't the one who had humiliated him.

And still, Matteo refused to believe it until he saw her himself.

His footsteps echoed through the stone hall as he approached her cell. The iron door groaned open, and she startled like a bird, curling tighter into the corner of the bed. Her eyes were swollen from crying, her wrists still raw with bruises, her dress hanging loose around her thin frame.

For a moment, he only looked at her, the quiet rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers clutched the blanket as though it could shield her from him.

Then his voice, flat, unyielding, cut through the silence.

"Do you have a twin?"

The question hung heavy in the air.

I blinked at him, confusion flooding my face. My lips parted, trembling, before the words slipped out, fragile and hoarse.

"No. I don't."

Matteo's jaw tightened. He studied her again, as though the answer might change if he searched her long enough. But her eyes, wet, desperate, unbearably honest, stripped away his last defense.

For the first time in days, his chest tightened. Not with rage, not with the searing heat of vengeance, but with something far more dangerous. Something he couldn't name.

Guilt? Regret? Weakness?

No. He refused to call it that.

Still, he gave the order. His voice was clipped, as if the words cost him something.

"The maiden will clean you up. Return her suitcase. See that she's... whole again."

For a long moment, I couldn't breathe. My ears rang, my body stiff with disbelief.

So... he's not going to kill me?

The thought staggered me. After nights of terror, of thinking every breath might be my last, the realization struck like a foreign language I didn't understand. Am I going to live?

When the maid returned, her hands gentle, her voice softer than before, I let her guide me. She washed the grime from my skin, brushed the knots from my hair, handed me clothes that smelled faintly of lavender. Piece by piece, I began to feel human again. But inside, I was still hollow, my body marked with bruises, my soul carved open by something far crueler than chains.

Then he came.

Matteo Loki, the man whose hands had broken me, whose shadow I thought would end me,  stood before me with an envelope in hand. Thick. Heavy. I didn't need to open it to know it held more money than I'd ever seen in my life. Enough to vanish, to build a future, to pretend none of this had ever happened.

His expression was carved from stone, his voice flat, businesslike.

"This is fifty thousand," he said. His voice didn't rise, didn't falter. "More than enough for you to disappear. Go back to wherever you came from. Forget this city. Forget me."

Fifty thousand. The number crashed through me like thunder. My heart thudded so loudly I thought he might hear it. Fifty thousand could erase my poverty, could buy me a life I had never dared dream of. A safe place to sleep, food that didn't run out, maybe even a chance at something like freedom.

But bile rose in my throat. The envelope sat there like an accusation. As if money could stitch back what had been torn from me. As if it could erase the bruises, the fear, the way he had crushed me into the bed and taken what wasn't his.

I lifted my chin, my voice shaking but firm. "I don't want your money."

The words nearly stuck in my throat. My fingers hovered above the envelope, trembling with the temptation to take it, but I didn't. I couldn't. My chest ached as I forced the strength into my arm, shoving the envelope back against his chest with shaking hands.

"No amount of money can erase what you did to me."

The words tore out of me raw, jagged, like glass dragged across my tongue.

Rage, grief, shame, all of it twisted inside me until it felt like fire under my skin. I had been innocent. I had been nothing but a stranger in the wrong place at the wrong time. And yet here I was, used, broken, discarded like trash. I had thought I would die down there. Thought they would carve me into pieces and sell me. And now he thought he could buy my silence. My life. My soul.

I hated him.

With trembling hands and tears streaking down my face, I pushed the money away and turned.

And then I walked out. Crying.

Behind me, he didn't move. Didn't reach for me. Didn't say a word.

Matteo Loki only watched me go, his silence heavier than chains, his shadow clinging to me even as I stepped into the light.

---