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.

As the door to the hospital room opened, they saw Juliette was propped weakly against the headboard, waiting for surgery.

The moment she saw Franco, her dull eyes suddenly lit up with life.

Without the slightest regard for the fact that this man was her brother-in-law, she reached out and clutched his hand.

"Franco, I'm scared… what if I don't wake up?"

Franco sat down at her bedside, his voice steady, reassuring. "You will. Just focus on the surgery."

Tears welled in Juliette's eyes at the perfect moment, shimmering without spilling.

"Then… when I wake up, will you be here? I want the first thing I see to be you."

"Yes," he promised softly. "I'll be right here waiting."

Not far away, Jerissa stood silently, watching the look in his eyes—a tenderness so deep it bordered on devotion.

But she knew too well. That gaze wasn't really meant for Juliette.

Perhaps, long ago, it was Nicole who had once laid in that hospital bed, clutching his hand, whispering not to leave.

Suddenly, Juliette sneezed twice in quick succession, her face turning pale further.

"Sister, did you spray perfume? You know I'm allergic!"

Franco’s expression darkened, his brows knitting as he snapped, “How vicious can you be? Are you trying to sabotage Juliette’s surgery on purpose? Get out—before I lose my temper.”

Jerissa turned without a word, digging her nails into her palm to ground herself.

She hadn't touched perfume at all. But if Juliette said she had, then that was all that mattered.

It had always been like this.

Juliette was the one who broke their father’s antique vase, yet she framed Jerissa for it—leaving Jerissa to be punished and locked in the dark basement all night.

When their father forgot important documents at home, it was Jerissa who braved a storm to deliver them. But when he asked, Juliette calmly claimed the credit.

As Jerissa reached the door, she caught sight of her sister's gaze.

Juliette truly believed that with a few practiced tears and delicate pretenses, she could make Franco fall for her—that soon, this brother-in-law would become her husband.

Jerissa's lips curved into the faintest smile.

'Take him, then.' She spoke silently in her heart.

'Soon, the title of Mrs. Alba, even Franco himself, will be yours. But when the moment comes that you realize you were only ever a substitute—don't cry.'

Just then, Jerald approached, his expression was thunderous.

The sharp scent of disinfectant filled the corridor. Jerissa had barely turned when his cold face loomed over her.

"What are you doing here?"

Before she could answer, his voice cut sharper, laced with warning. "Don't tell me you want to back out. Too late. Juliette's surgery is already arranged."

Jerissa's throat burned as she looked at the man who was her father in name only.

"My mother is just across the street in the nursing home. Have you gone to see her even once?"

A flicker of guilt flashed in his eyes. "Why bring her up?"

"Why not?" Jerissa's gaze hardened.

Her mother had told her once: Dad only married her because of her grandfather's influence. And the day her grandfather's family went bankrupt, he served divorce papers. By the next day, he had married Juliette's mother.

But fate was cruel—Juliette's mother died in childbirth, and ever since, her father had spoiled Juliette without restraint.

"You were married to my mother for years. Even if there was no love, now that she's this ill—"

"Stop trying to guilt-trip me!" Jerald snapped. "You stayed in the Cortez family for money! For your mother's medical bills, for your share of the inheritance. Don't act so high and mighty."

"I’ve already given you everything you wanted. I’ll take care of the divorce as soon as possible. What you want is foreign stock, isn’t it? All so you can take your mother abroad? Fine—go. But don’t ever come back.”

"Divorce?"

The hospital room door opened abruptly.

Franco stepped out, his brows drawn tight, his voice edged with cold suspicion.

"Where exactly are you going?"