"Jerissa, the doctor said this heart is a better match for your sister. Tell your mother to wait for the next donor."

Jerald slid the Heart Transplant Waiver Form across the table toward Jerissa.

Her fingers tightened around the neck of the wine bottle. "So that's it?" Her voice was low, trembling with restrained fury.

"The first time I came to your house, it was only so you could ask me to give up the heart my mother has been waiting for five years—so that Juliette can live?"

Jerald frowned. "Your sister is younger, and her body is weaker. Besides, your mother has already waited five years; waiting a little longer won't hurt."

Jerissa let out a sharp laugh. "Jerald, I really didn't misjudge you." She leaned forward, eyes like blades. "If your precious daughter's life is worth everything, then what exactly are you willing to pay for it?"

A flash of irritation and wariness crossed his face. "What do you want?"

"All the Cortez Enterprises' overseas shares." She pulled out a contract she'd already prepared and placed it on the table. "And… you'll help me divorce Franco."

Veins bulged at his temples. He glared at her, voice shaking with rage. "Are you insane? I just poured every cent into our overseas market! Things are finally showing results, and you want to take it all? And as for Franco—the marriage was a business alliance. Juliette likes him. I told you to let her marry him, but you refused. Now you want to divorce him? What game are you playing?"

Jerissa swirled her glass lazily, watching the ripples of red wine shimmer. Her tone was flat, almost careless. "No game. I'm simply tired of him. She wants him? Then let her have him."

"You—!" His voice rose sharply. "Do you see your sister as nothing but a rival? Is this just to humiliate her?"

She drained her glass in one gulp, set it down with a sharp clink, and stood. "If you can't do it, forget I said anything. I'm tired. Do as you like."

Immediately he panicked. "I'll agree!"

Grabbing the pen, he signed the transfer contract without hesitation. His voice was tight and urgent. "Once Juliette's surgery succeeds, I'll take care of the divorce."

Every day Juliette spent in the hospital was tormenting him. He felt as if his own flesh was being carved away. He had no time to haggle—he just needed his younger daughter on the operating table, alive.

Jerissa inhaled deeply, then picked up the pen and signed her name on the transplant waiver.

The final stroke barely left the page when Jerald sneered. "I can understand you fighting Juliette for shares. But don't you love Franco so much you swallowed every humiliation, even when he brought other women home? Now you're willing to let him go?"

Her chest jolted, words stuck like shards in her throat.

He was her father. The man who should have stood behind her, shielded her from harm.

But what kind of father would spit such cruelty at his own daughter?

Jerissa didn't answer. She only turned and walked away.

Only behind the safety of her locked bedroom door did her trembling ease. She collapsed onto the bed, drowning in alcohol's haze until her mind went blank.

She didn't know how much time had passed when strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her into a hard chest.

Hot breath brushed the shell of her ear, trailing across her cheek. His grip pinned her wrist above her head, the other hand sliding toward her collar—then abruptly stopping.

"You've been drinking?"

The voice was deep, magnetic—yet cold as steel. It snapped her back to consciousness.

Her eyes fluttered open and collided with Franco's furious gaze.

He sat up at once. "Didn't I tell you never to drink?"

Raising his voice, he ordered toward the door. "Someone, bring a sobering soup. Now!"

Then his hand clamped on her arm, yanking her upright. She stumbled as he dragged her into the bathroom.

The shower burst open, warm water drenching her body, but her heart only grew colder.

If not for the violence of his grip, she might have fooled herself into believing he cared. But no—what he cared about was that this face, this body, must never carry even the faintest trace of alcohol.

He left without looking back.

Over the rush of water, Jerissa whispered an answer to the question her father had thrown at her.

"Because he's just like you. He only keeps me around when I'm useful. The moment I'm not... he'll throw me away."

Pain spread through her chest, sharp and endless.

She remembered three years ago, the night of Franco's engagement banquet.

Juliette had sat at the piano, playing her carefully rehearsed melody—gentle, elegant, drawing sighs of admiration from the crowd. Jerald beamed with pride, as though he could already see his younger daughter as the future Mrs. Alba.

And Jerissa? She stood in the corner, invisible as always, quietly counting the champagne tower's tiers.

Until she felt a gaze.

She looked up—and fell into a pair of deep, commanding eyes.

The star of the evening.

Franco, the man who had expanded the Alba family empire in just a few short years, tall and aristocratic, aloof as snow—until his eyes landed on her.

At that moment, his careless gaze sharpened, lit by a hidden fire. And that one look sealed her fate.

To her shock, he chose her as the Alba family's bride.

Jerald's face had darkened. As always, he demanded she step aside for Juliette.

But for the first time in her life, Jerissa shook her head.

Because all her life, she had yielded simply because she was the elder sister. But this time—this time someone had chosen her. And she wouldn't give it up.

The wedding was a spectacle, shaking the entire city. Gilded invitations flooded the business world. Her gown was custom-made, designed personally by Franco and crafted for months until it was one-of-a-kind.

Afterward, he treated her like a treasure.

Luxury brands delivered new collections straight to her closet before she even glanced at the magazines. The most sought-after pastry chef in the city was whisked into their kitchen daily, making her favorite osmanthus cakes and almond pastries just for her.

Surrounded by his tenderness, she felt dizzy with happiness. Franco was like fate's gift, making up for twenty years of neglect.

Until the day she carried a pot of soup to his office—and overheard him talking with a friend through the closed door.

"The ones I've found lately—some sound like her, some have her figure. Want to take a look?"

Franco's voice answered, calm and indifferent. "Fine. Arrange it."

"You don't sound excited like before. Don't tell me you're actually falling for Jerissa? Although... I admit she's the closest to Nicole. Especially her eyes. Sometimes I almost mistake her for the real thing."

Silence ensued for a moment before his cold and merciless reply sounded.

"No matter how alike… she's not her. My Nicole is irreplaceable."

It was as if thunder exploded in Jerissa's ears. A deafening buzz filled her head, drowning out every sound.

She returned home like a lost soul, her feet carrying her into the one place Franco had forbidden her to enter—his study.

As soon as she entered, she froze.

The walls were lined with photographs. A girl in a white dress smiling in the sunlight, laughing carefree... Her brows and eyes bore an uncanny resemblance to her own—seven parts alike, three parts different.

On the desk lay open journals, pages overflowing with longing, filled with one name: Nicole.

And at that moment, everything became clear.

Jerissa was nothing but a stand-in.

The grand wedding, the unique gown, the vows whispered to her... none of it had ever been meant for her. They were all prepared for the woman he had truly wanted to marry.

...

The bathroom door creaked open. Franco stepped in, setting down a neatly folded set of pajamas—soft gray cotton with a lace-trimmed collar.

Her stomach turned. She hated lace. It scratched her skin and caught in her hair. But of course, Franco didn't care what she liked. He only wanted to mold her into the image of another woman.

Jerissa closed her eyes and sank beneath the bathwater, letting the weight of it press against her chest.

Memories sharpened in her mind like glass shards.

The rows of clothes in the walk-in closet were all Nicole's favorite brands and style. Even the pastries the chef delivered every morning were also Nicole's favorite sweets.

The gentleness in his gaze when he looked at her was never truly hers. He was staring through her face, tracing the ghost of someone else.

He forbade her from drinking not because he cared for her health. But because Nicole hated alcohol.

Jerissa had confronted him once, even broken down in hysteria. And his reply had nearly shattered her.

"To resemble Nicole at all—that's your blessing. Otherwise, what makes you think you deserve to marry into the Alba family?"

When she still refused to back down, he wrapped it in business.

"As long as you stay my wife, your father's company will have every resource it needs. If you leave... don't expect Cortez Enterprises to survive."

He didn't need to say the rest. His warning was clear enough.

At that time, Cortez Enterprises had just begun pushing into foreign markets. If the Alba family turned its back, they'd be devoured by competitors before they even found their footing.

So she endured.

And in her endurance, a fragile, foolish hope sprouted.

Nicole was gone. But she was here—alive. Maybe, just maybe, with time, he would see her. Not as a substitute, not as a shadow, but as Jerissa.

So she started reclaiming herself—wearing the leather jackets she loved, racing with friends on roaring tracks, laughing wildly in the wind.

She wasn't fighting Nicole anymore. She was fighting her own desperate hope.

Until one day, all the racetracks in the city suddenly banned her.

Franco dragged her away, wiping the crimson lipstick from her lips. His voice was ice, every word was like a dagger piercing her heart.

"I have plenty of options. If it weren't for your sister's heart condition, the position of Mrs. Alba would never have been yours. A substitute is just a substitute. If you don't do it, someone else will. So stop making trouble... hmm?"

Each syllable pierced her chest, but worse was yet to come.

He began openly bringing other "substitutes" into their home.

Women who sounded like Nicole.

Women who moved like Nicole.

Even women who shared Nicole's name.

The entire social circle whispered and sneered—Jerissa, nothing more than a disposable prop, a placeholder in someone else's story.

If it weren't for Juliette's heart disease, the first person to replace her would be her own younger sister.

At that thought, Jerissa felt the air drain from her lungs. She burst to the surface with a splash, gasping.

Why?

Why should she live as someone else's shadow?

She was Jerissa Cortez—alive, breathing, a woman with her own desires, her own fire.

Staring into the mirror, she heard a voice ring clear within her chest, firm and unyielding, 'From this day forward, I will live for myself.'

Jerissa didn't put on the pajamas. Instead, wrapped only in a bath towel, she stepped out of the bathroom.

Franco's gaze flicked at her, his brows drawing together almost imperceptibly. But he said nothing.

Instead, he walked into the closet and returned with a silk nightdress he had hidden away.

"Change into this before you catch a cold."

A flicker of surprise stirred in Jerissa's eyes. She had expected him to be as forceful as before—pressing the clothes onto her, even dressing her himself with unyielding hands that allowed no refusal.

Before she could respond, a knock came from the door.

"Sir, the hangover soup is ready."

By the time she emerged again, Franco was sitting on the edge of the bed. In his hands was the steaming bowl of soup, his head bowed as he blew gently across the surface. The rising mist softened his features, giving him, for once, a faint tenderness.

He tested the temperature with the spoon, then looked up at her.

"Come. Drink this so you won't have a headache in the morning."

Her chest tightened.

How did he know she always got headaches after drinking?

Jerissa walked over and sat beside him. He lifted the spoon to her lips. She parted them slightly, letting the warm, faintly bitter liquid slide down her throat, carrying a faint medicinal fragrance.

When the bowl was empty, he picked up an almond pastry.

"Your favorite." Her body stiffened. Bitterness stung her tongue.

Every time she ate one of those, she had to secretly swallow allergy medicine afterward.

"That isn't me." She met his eyes, her voice steady. "I'm allergic to almonds."

Franco's gaze darkened. After a pause, he said quietly, "Alright. I won't have the chef make them again."

Jerissa studied the rigid line of his profile. Something strange rose inside her.

Was he... different, somehow?

That night, he did nothing more. He simply held her in his arms. His arm around her waist wasn't tight, yet it bound her with a weight that was impossible to shake off.

The next morning, Franco had breakfast prepared. Warm milk, golden toast edged with char, strawberry jam—all of it were still Nicole's favorites.

Jerissa picked up a slice of toast, only to notice a servant pressing a high-fashion gown under the iron.

"When you're done eating, change into that," Franco said flatly. "We're going out."

She remembered too well—there had been a photograph in his study, Nicole wearing that exact same dress.

What was different? What was she still hoping for?

Maybe last night's gentleness was nothing but an illusion born of too much wine.

She laughed at herself. "Where are we going?"

"The hospital. Juliette's surgery is today."

Her heart plummeted.

Of course. She should have known.

Juliette's features resembled Nicole's even more closely than hers did. She, too, was frail and ill, fragile to the point of breaking.

The only reason Franco had chosen Jerissa in the first place was because Juliette had been too sick—he feared she might leave him, just as Nicole had.

And once Juliette recovered, he would finally have a more "perfect" stand-in.

How laughable. Even as a substitute, she was only the second best.

She remembered not long ago, when Juliette deliberately coughed blood in front of him, and he had rushed overnight to gather an elite medical team to stay at the Cortex estate.

When Juliette murmured so much as murmured that her chest felt heavy, he had abandoned Jerissa in the pouring rain, driving forty minutes just to deliver medicine.

If it weren't a crime, Jerissa was certain he would tear someone's heart out just to keep Juliette alive.

Lowering her eyes, she drained her glass of milk in one swallow.

"Let's go."

Soon, she would no longer be Mrs. Alba.

Who he cared for, who he dressed up as a substitute—it would no longer have anything to do with her.