For my birthday, my husband, Don Damien, gave me his dead wife’s pearls.

I wore them to the dinner party. My enraged stepson, Leo, doused me in red wine.

I became the laughingstock of the party.

“You whore,” he hissed. “You think wearing my mother’s jewelry makes you her?”

He stared at me, his eyes cold as ice. Then he screamed. "Get out of my house."

But his mother died when he was a baby. I raised him.

Someone had whispered poison in his ear. They told him I was the one who killed his mother. Now he thinks I'm a scheming bitch who tricked his father.

And his father? My husband?

He never saw me. He only saw Krista’s ghost.

My heart didn't break. It shattered.

They didn't love me. They didn't even care. So I walked.

Then why, after I was finally gone, did they come crawling back, begging me to return?

On my birthday, the stepson I’d raised from a baby emptied a glass of red wine over my head. He screamed at me to get the hell out of his house.

For years, I had been a substitute for a dead woman. Now, I was a monster to the boy I had raised as my own.

I had endured enough.

"You bitch! Don't you dare think you can replace my mom just by wearing her jewelry!"

My eight-year-old stepson, Leo, stood before me. His little face was twisted with rage.

Before I could move, cold, sticky wine soaked through my dress.

The next second, his hand shot out, closing around the pearls at my throat. He yanked.

The string snapped. Pearls skittered across the marble floor, a hundred tiny, white tears.

Damien had given them to me just this morning. He’d looked me straight in the eye and said they were made for me.

I thought he was finally seeing me.

I never dreamed the pearls belonged to his dead wife, Krista.

The ballroom fell silent.

Every guest stared. Some whispered. Others pulled out their phones to take pictures.

"Leo." My voice was dangerously calm. "Your father gave me this jewelry."

"I don't care!" he screamed. "You're just copying her! You'll never be my mother!"

I looked at the child I had raised. A sharp pain shot through my heart.

Eight years ago, Damien’s wife, Krista, was killed in a rival family hit.

She took a bullet meant for their son.

That same year, my father’s business was failing.

He saw an opportunity.

My father’s plan: seduce the grieving Don.

Everyone knew how much he’d loved his wife. I wanted no part of that mess.

But my father pushed.

He arranged for me to be at a gala.

I never expected what happened next. The moment Damien saw me, his grief turned to obsession. He had to have me.

Because I was a dead ringer for his dead Krista.

For eight years, I played the part of a dutiful wife and stepmother. I took care of this father and son.

Sometimes, I’d lose myself and think we were a real, happy family.

Until last year. Leo found out I wasn't his birth mother.

He started throwing fits, demanding his real mom back. He even accused me of killing her.

I tried to soothe him, just like I always had.

He only gave me insults and rebellion in return.

Before, I always put up with it. I played the role of the patient, gentle stepmother.

But not today. Today, I was done.

I stood, my eyes fixed forward. My birthday was over.

"Then go find your real mother."

Leo froze.

He clearly didn't expect that response.

I turned and walked out of the ballroom, heading for the garden to clear my head.

But when I got back to my third-floor studio, I walked into hell.

My grandfather’s painting, Heart of the Desert. It was slashed to ribbons. Black paint was smeared all over the canvas.

Next to it, in childish handwriting: "You took my mom from me, so I'm taking the thing you care about most!"

It had taken me three years to restore it.

Now, it was destroyed. The frame, smashed to pieces. A deep gash ripped through the canvas. Priceless pigments smeared across it like dried blood.

Leo stood beside the wreckage, the paint-stained dagger still in his hand.

"This is what you get for crossing me!" he announced, gloating. "Next time you mess with me, I'll destroy all your junk!"

My heart stopped.

That painting was my last connection to anything real in this world.

It was a testament to my grandfather, who taught me how to paint my soul with color. It was my only comfort in this cold mansion.

I knelt, my trembling hands picking up a torn piece of the canvas.

Now it was shattered, just like my heart.

"Elara."

Damien's voice came from the doorway. I didn’t turn, but I could feel his eyes scanning the room.

"What happened?" he asked.

"It's obvious," my voice sounded distant. "Your son destroyed my things."

"Leo, why would you do this?"

"She started it!" Leo shot back. "She wore Mom's dress and told me to go find my real mom!"

I finally stood and faced Damien.

He looked pissed, but not because of what Leo did.

"Over a painting?" he said, his voice dangerously low. "You're making a scene over a piece of canvas?"

Two bodyguards walked in. Damien snapped his fingers. "Get this trash out of my sight."

Trash.

He called my grandfather’s soul trash.

I watched as the guards swept the torn canvas and broken frame into a garbage bag.

"Don't look at me like that," Damien said, walking toward me. "I'll make it up to you. Today is a special day. I have another gift for you."

He pulled a document from his jacket pocket.

"Ownership of a legitimate company. It's worth five million dollars. As of today, it's yours."

He was buying me off. Paying me like a whore to shut up and forget.

Five million dollars.

He thought money could fix anything.

He thought I was like all the other women, that a big enough check would make me grateful.

He never knew what that painting meant to me.

Or maybe he knew. And he just didn't care.

Damien reached out to touch my cheek, just like he had a thousand times over the past eight years.

I took a step back.

For the first time in eight years, I recoiled from his touch.

Damien’s hand froze mid-air. A flash of confusion crossed his eyes.

"Damien." My trembling voice steadied.

"Our deal is done. Tomorrow, I'm leaving."

Damien's face darkened.

"Is this some game to get my attention?" He sneered. "Stop the drama, Elara. This is childish."

"A tantrum?"

I repeated the word, tasting it.

"You're right. I'm not a child. I'm old enough to know what stupid looks like."

"Enough," his voice was a warning. "Leo needs you. You can't just abandon him over a momentary impulse."

"Needs me?" I turned, looking him straight in the eye. "Or does he need his nanny?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The truth," I said, walking to the safe and entering the code. "Eight years ago, my father sent me here. He was desperate for your protection, for business. The deal was simple—I take care of your son. In return, you protect my family."

Damien's expression shifted. "That wasn't all of it."

"Of course not." I took out a key and a copy of a ledger. "I also had to be her. Her ghost. Wear her clothes, her perfume. Copy that goddamn smile."

"Elara—"

"But you never made it official, did you?"

I placed the key and the document on the desk in front of him. "For eight years, the official title was 'Guardian's Assistant.' A glorified nanny."

Damien stared at the items.

The estate's master security key and a copy of the family's financial ledgers.

"You went through the financials?"

"Went through them?" I scoffed. "Damien, you put me in charge of household expenses. Of course I know every entry. Including the monthly 'allowance' you send my father."

He was silent for a few seconds, then suddenly grabbed my wrist.

"Fine. What do you want? A title?" His voice was tight. "You want to be Mrs. Volkov? Done. Marry me. Be the real lady of this house."

I looked at the hand gripping my wrist.

He was still wearing his wedding ring. Her ring. She’d been dead for eight years.

"Let go of me."

"I'm serious," he hissed, his grip tightening like a vise. "Money. Power. A title. Name it. It's yours."

"What I want, you can never give me."

I wrenched my hand free and backed toward the door.

"What do you want?" There was a hint of desperation in his voice.

"Freedom."

The word hit him like a bullet.

Damien's face turned to stone.

"Freedom?" he scoffed. "I gave you a palace. Cars. A black card with no limit. Women would kill for your life."

"Then go find one of them."

I reached for the door, but it was locked.

Damien pulled a key from his pocket, a cold smile on his face.

"I thought we could discuss this rationally," he said, tearing the ledger copy into pieces. "But clearly, you need some time to cool off."

The shreds of paper fluttered to the floor like snow.

"You're locking me in?"

"I'm protecting my family," he gestured to the door. "And that includes protecting you from yourself."

Footsteps approached.

Two bodyguards appeared at the door.

"No one in or out of this room until she comes to her senses," Damien ordered.

The door slammed shut.

I was alone in the studio, surrounded by the antiques I’d carefully collected.

Now they just looked like decorations in a prison cell.

I walked to the window and looked down at the garden.

There was a small memorial stone there, engraved with a date: April 15, 2016.

The day Krista died.

And the day I arrived.

Our so-called "anniversary" was never about me.

It was Damien and Krista's wedding anniversary.

And I was just her shadow, brought in on that special day.

Eight years.

I'd lived a lie for eight years.

Suddenly, a steel ball hit my forehead.

The pain made me whip around.

Leo was standing on the balcony of the building opposite, holding a slingshot.

"You're still here?" his voice was vicious, dripping with malice. "Next time, it won't be a steel ball. It'll be a bullet. Right between your eyes."

I was trapped in that room for three whole days.

Damien said it was for me to 'think about what I'd done.'

And Leo made it his mission to come and scream insults at me every day, as if it was his new favorite game.

On the third day, the door finally opened.

My father burst in, out of breath, his suit a mess.

His hair was a mess. He looked like he'd driven all night.

He saw the bruise on my forehead and his face went pale.

"Elara, my daughter." He opened his arms for a hug.

I stepped back. "What are you doing here?"

"Damien told me what happened," my father's voice trembled. "Elara, my God, what have you done? You can't leave him. You'll ruin us!"

"Ruin you?"

"Without Volkov protection, we're dead. Our business is gone." He suddenly dropped to his knees. "Our enemies will tear us apart. Competitors will swallow our territory. Your brother is still in college, your mother's medical bills—"

"Enough."

But he kept going, his voice growing more desperate. "A thousand people work for us. Their families depend on that money. They'll starve. All because you're throwing a fucking tantrum."

Tantrum.

There was that word again.

I heard a car engine downstairs.

Looking out the window, I saw a black sedan pull up to the front.

The door opened and a woman stepped out.

Long blonde hair, a slender waist. Even in the dark, I could see her delicate features.

She was wearing a red dress, identical to the one Krista used to love.

"Who is she?" I asked.

My father followed my gaze. His face fell even further.

"Sophia. Damien's new... assistant."

New assistant.

I watched as Sophia walked into the mansion. Leo immediately ran down the stairs to greet her.

He was smiling, genuinely happy, like he was seeing a long-lost relative.

"She looks a lot like Krista..." my father said carefully. "You're in trouble, Elara."

Trouble?

Because she was a better copy, and I was just the cheap knock-off.

Two bodyguards passed the door. I heard them talking.

"The new girl is seriously hot."

"Heard they got her from a club. She's a hell of a dancer."

"Way better than the ice queen upstairs."

"Shh, keep it down."

My father heard it too.

"Elara, listen to me, you have to—"

"Have to what? He already found a replacement!" I turned on him. "I've sacrificed enough for this family. I'm leaving!"

"No!" My father grabbed my arm. "You can't go! I won't allow it!"

"You won't allow it?"

"I am your father!" he yelled. "I have the right to decide your life!"

"You had that right," I said, my voice ice. "You sold it eight years ago."

My father stared, his face twisting into an ugly snarl.

SLAP!

The crack of the slap echoed in the room.

My cheek stung, but I refused to touch it.

"Ungrateful bitch!" he roared. "I raised you, and this is how you repay me?"

He raised his hand to hit me again.

I caught his wrist.

"That's enough," my voice was like ice. "As of today, we're even."

My father stared at me, his eyes full of rage and disbelief. "You're insane."

"No. I'm sober," I said, letting go of his hand. "More sober than I've ever been."

He stumbled back, pointing a finger at me. "You'll regret this. Without the family, without protection, you'll be nothing!"

"I'd rather be nothing."

He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

The room was quiet again.

I turned around and met Damien's dark, deep-set eyes.