The Wrong Twin Brother is Warming My Bed

I was eight years old when I first stepped into the Jones mansion—clutching the hem of my mother’s skirt. She and Carlo Jones, the father of the twins, had been old friends. He used to visit our tiny apartment with gifts, always checking on my mother when things became too heavy for her to carry alone. After my mother took her own life—when depression and heartbreak from my father’s infidelity finally crushed her—Carlo didn’t hesitate. He brought me into the Jones household, not legally, not on paper, but with a kind of warmth that felt more binding than documents. And the moment I arrived, two boys ran down the grand staircase, identical faces lighting up in curiosity. Damien and Marc. They were my first real friends. We played in the gardens until sunset, chasing each other around the fountains, building forts out of blankets in their giant playroom. They used to argue over who got to give me their jacket whenever I felt cold. Damien would drape his over my shoulders with a soft smile. Marc would huff like he wanted to complain but always ended up offering his too. And whenever I cried at night, missing my mother, both boys snuck into my room—one handing me water, the other whispering jokes until I laughed again. They cared for me. Fiercely. Tenderly. As if my sadness made me theirs. But things changed when we reached high school. The twin boys who once held my hands on both sides had grown into men—sharp-jawed, taller, deeper-voiced. And suddenly… the way they looked at me wasn’t the same anymore. Damien became gentler, more protective. He waited for me after class, carried my bag, and always walked on the side of the sidewalk closest to the street. He was warm. Reliable. Steady. Marc was different. Brooding. Intense. Quick to temper. He’d fight with boys who stared at me too long, pull me away from crowds, and glare at Damien whenever I laughed at his jokes. The rivalry between them grew into something ugly. I remembered one night clearly. We were seventeen, standing behind the old tool shed. Damien had tried to hold my hand for the first time. I let him. Marc saw. “Of course,” Marc had spat, fists clenched. “Of course you’d pick him. Golden boy Damien. Perfect Damien.” “Marc, stop,” I’d tried to say. But he shoved Damien’s shoulder. Damien shoved back. And then they were fighting—wild, punching, yelling. Years of resentment exploding right in front of me. Because Marc was the black sheep of the family. He skipped classes. Got into trouble. Stayed out late. While Damien was every parent’s dream—obedient, responsible, the heir everyone trusted. Even Carlo used to say, “Marc needs discipline. Damien is the one fit to lead the family.” And Marc knew it. Felt it. Lived with that shadow all his life. Maybe that’s why he wanted me—because Damien wanted me too. But I never saw Marc that way. My heart had always belonged to Damien. After that night behind the shed, Marc stopped talking to me. Avoided me. Couldn’t even bear to look at me. And then six years ago… the yacht accident. Marc died. Or so I’d been told. I cried for weeks—not because I’d loved him romantically, but because he had been my childhood, my memory, my family. I blamed myself for choosing between them, for being the reason they drifted apart. And now— Now he was alive. And pretending to be Damien. And had been in my bed. My life. My home. My mind spun, and I didn’t realize I was shaking until a voice sliced through the fog: “And where is that woman? Isn’t she supposed to be here?” I flinched. I wasn’t ready to face the twins—not either version of them. So I hurried down the hallway, forcing my breaths to steady as I rushed back to my room. I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, pressing trembling fingers to my lips. Act normal. Pretend you know nothing. Pretend you didn’t hear a thing. I smoothed my dress. Fixed my hair. Bit my lip until I tasted metal. A knock echoed behind me. Before I could even move, the door swung open. Damien. No. Not Damien. Marc. He walked in with that easy, confident stride—the one I used to mistake for Damien’s but now recognized far too clearly. He cupped my cheeks and kissed me before I could dodge. “Hey, love. What’s taking you so long?” he murmured against my lips. “I want you beside me tonight. I have a surprise for you—you’re going to love it.” I forced a thin smile, pretending to lean into him while silently praying he didn’t feel how tense my body was. “A surprise?” I whispered. He grinned, brushing his thumb over my bottom lip. “Mm-hm. But you have to come outside first.” I nodded, playing along. When we stepped out to the patio, music rose from the speakers, lights glowed across the yard, and people cheered because Carlo was about to make a speech. But then—The crowd parted. And the man I once thought my husband—the real Damien—walked toward me with a gentle, almost hesitant smile. “Hello,” he said softly, extending a hand. “I’m Marc. I’m… alive. I survived the accident because someone saved me. I’m sorry for everything. I didn’t mean to disappear.” My breath hitched at the lie. He was posing as Marc—for my sake. For my sanity. For the complicated disaster his twin had created. I bowed my head, voice trembling. “I’m sorry too… for being such an ass back then. I hope we can be better friends again.” He opened his mouth to speak, but a high-pitched voice interrupted. “Hey there, stepsister!” Sofia. She threw her arms around me as if we’d grown up braiding each other’s hair, not as if her mother destroyed mine. I smiled tightly. “Hi, Sofia. You’re here.” The real Damien pretending to be Marc said, “Yes, actually. This is also the news I want to tell, we’re gonna get married. And we’re gonna all be a happy family.” “Great,” I just responded. The night blurred after that—music, conversations, laughter I couldn’t feel. My thoughts were a storm inside my skull as I pretended not to see the lies unraveling around me. Later during the dance party, when the lights dimmed and people swayed under the stars, I felt a hand slide around my waist. A mouth pressed against mine. Deep. Familiar. Wrong. I instantly knew who it was. “Hey, love. Do you want to go upstairs and make love to me rather than here—” Marc’s—no, fake Damien’s—hand slid toward my waist. I shoved him back so hard he almost stumbled. My heart thundered in my chest. “Stop it now, Marc. Leave me alone!

“Hey, love. Do you want to go upstairs and make love to me rather than here—” Marc’s—no, fake Damien’s—hand slid toward my waist. I shoved him back so hard he almost stumbled. My heart thundered in my chest. “Stop it now, Marc. Leave me alone!” Music thumped around us, but the world narrowed to the two of us. He blinked, eyes widening in an exaggerated display of innocence. “Elena… sweetheart, what are you saying?” His voice trembled with hurt—so obviously staged. “I’m your Damien. Your husband. Why are you suddenly mentioning Marc?” He even placed a hand over his chest, like I’d struck him. Fake. Every bit of him was fake. A few guests paused their dancing. Someone lowered their drink. “Did you miss him?” Marc—pretending to be Damien—lowered his voice, but loud enough for those around us to catch it. “Is that what this is? You saw him, and now you’re confused again?” “Don’t twist my words,” I hissed. He took a step closer, and I stepped back. “Elena,” he said, voice shaking just the right amount to look wounded, “I’m trying here. I’m really trying. But you—why are you pushing me away like I’m a stranger to you… just because Marc came back? Do you like him… did you regret—” “Because you are,” I yelled. His eyes darkened for a split second, but he masked it quickly. “What are you saying?” I swallowed, gathering every ounce of courage left inside me. “Because you are not Damien,” I said louder. “You are Marc. Stop lying to me.” The crowd gasped. The world seemed to freeze for half a heartbeat. And that was when the real Damien—wearing Marc’s identity—walked toward us, calm, composed, shoulders squared like the heir he was always meant to be. “Elena,” he said carefully, “what’s happening here?” Before I could speak, Sofia’s shrill, triumphant voice cut through the air. “Oh my God,” she scoffed, stepping beside him. “You were thinking about my fiancé again, weren’t you?” I stared at her. “What?” She smirked. “Don’t deny it. Everyone knows you’ve never gotten over Marc… and maybe regretting choosing Damien. I mean, you told me that back then, you were torn between them. Now that you learned he survived and is with me, you’re losing your mind.” “That’s not—” “Can’t believe you can’t even tell them apart,” she continued with a cruel laugh. “Or is it because you always wanted Marc? You’ve always been obsessed with him, right?” “I haven’t—That’s not—” The real Marc—pretending to be Damien—lifted a hand, interrupting me sharply. “Enough,” he said in an exhausted voice, but it was a performance again. “Elena, please. Don’t be like this.” “I’m telling the truth—” “Just stop,” he said, shaking his head like I was embarrassing him. “Please. Can you stop acting like this? You rejected me, right? Now that I’m happy, you’re making a scene on your birthday… to get their sympathy?” It was a dagger straight to the heart. The music didn’t cover the humiliation swallowing me whole. The whispers. The stares. The disbelief on every face. I felt the air leave my lungs. I turned and walked blindly inside the house, heat scorching my cheeks, vision blurring. No point in arguing. I didn’t care where I went—I just needed walls, silence, anything to keep myself from screaming. I pushed into the nearest bedroom—my room—and locked the door with shaking hands. My body trembled. But I felt him before he entered. Damien. The real one. He opened the door quietly, closed it behind him, and leaned against it like he’d been carrying the weight of the whole night. “Elena…” he said, rubbing his forehead. “Come on. Are you trying to ruin your own party?” I stared at him as if seeing a ghost. Because in a way—he was. “You’re causing a scene,” he continued. “Dad’s on his way here. If he hears what you said—if he learns you thought I was Marc—what do you think will happen when he had always wanted you to marry me? We’re the ones destined to me. You’re hurting me! Why—” “Why?” My voice cracked. “Why did you lie to me, Damien? Why did you have to fake—” A scream tore through the yard. Sofia. We both froze. But Damien didn’t hesitate. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t finish my sentence. Didn’t explain. Didn’t choose me. He rushed out the door like he had been waiting for that scream all his life. He ran to her. The door slammed. The silence that followed was deafening. I stood there for a long moment, as if my body had turned to stone. Then my legs gave out, and I sat at the edge of the bed, pressing both hands to my stomach. “I’m sorry, baby…” I whispered through tears that stung like acid. “I don’t think you need to live in this world.” My heart cracked cleanly in half. Because I knew what kind of world this was. A world where truth could be twisted. Where love could be swapped like identities. Where the man I loved could leave me mid-sentence—to chase another woman. I forced my hands to move. Reached for my phone and wiped my face with the back of my shaking wrist. There was only one thing left—one thing I could still control. I dialed the number. The line rang once. Twice. Then clicked. “Good evening,” a professional voice said. “This is Attorney Ramos’ office.” My voice was raw, but steady. “This is Elena Jones,” I said. “I’m calling because… I’m filing for divorce.”

When the call ended, I finally let my body collapse backward on the bed. Somehow, I drifted into sleep—if it could even be called that. Just hours of darkness pressing over me until the sun burned into my eyelids and I woke to a world that felt heavier than the night before. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I dragged myself out of bed, dressed, and made my way to Attorney Ramos’ office. The secretary immediately recognized my name and ushered me inside. Papers were prepared, printed, slid across the desk. “This is the preliminary petition,” the lawyer explained gently. “Once you sign this, we begin.” My hand trembled as I picked up the pen. I signed, then I walked out. I was gripping the folder of documents so tightly my knuckles ached by the time I reached home. The walk from the car felt unusually long—each step heavy, every breath thick. I pushed open the front door then I saw Sofia. She stood in the middle of the living room beside the tall glass cabinet where Damien displayed the awards he was proud of—mine included. And in her hand was my trophy. Model of the Year. The award I bled and starved and fought for. She was holding it as if it were nothing. “Oh, sister,” she drawled when her eyes met mine. “You’re finally home. I was just admiring… this little trophy of yours.” Her voice was dipped in honey, but her eyes—acid. My grip tightened around the folder. “Put it down, Sofia.” “Oh, I will,” she said lightly. And she loosened her fingers. Deliberately. The trophy hit the floor with a sharp, sickening crack—metal bending, glass splintering. I froze. “You—what the hell, Sofia?!” My voice ripped out of me. “That’s mine!” Something inside me snapped. I lunged forward—not to hurt her, but to get to my trophy, the pieces of it scattered like parts of myself. She angled her body in front of it as if blocking me was another game to her. “Move,” I hissed. She didn’t. So I shoved her. Harder than I intended. Sofia stumbled back with a sharp gasp, her hand flying dramatically to her shoulder as if I had hurled her across the room. “Ow—Elena!” she whimpered, voice already trembling. “Why would you push me like that?” I blinked at her, stunned. “Don’t start, Sofia. You ruined my trophy! You dropped it on purpose—” Her face twisted, lips wobbling. Then, like a switch flipped, she burst into tears. Loud. Exaggerated. Painful sobs that echoed through the whole damn house. And right on cue— “What happened here?” The real Damien. He hurried in from the hallway, eyes darting between us—Sofia clutching her shoulder and crying, me kneeling beside broken glass and metal on the floor. “She—she pushed me!” Sofia cried louder, crumbling into his chest like she was the victim of the century. “I just wanted to… to look at her trophy, and she—she hurt me!” “That’s not what happened!” I snapped. “She dropped my trophy. On purpose! She—” Damien raised a hand, silencing me without even looking my way. His gaze was already fixed on the shattered trophy, then on me, disappointment tightening his jaw. “Elena,” he said sharply, “it’s just a trophy. You didn’t have to get physical.” Just a trophy. My throat closed. The one I earned after years of training, starvation, bruises, tears. The one I had worked for while he told me to quit, to slow down, to choose him over my career. The one that represented everything I lost for him. Before I could say a word, Sofia sniffled pitifully and whispered, “I… I didn’t think she’d still hate me. I thought she had changed since we were kids. She always bullied me before, you know…” I stared at her. The audacity. “I NEVER bullied you—” Damien’s expression hardened. “Enough.” That word landed like a slap. He wrapped an arm around Sofia, guiding her toward the door as if she were some fragile porcelain doll. “Come on, Sofia. Let’s get you checked. That fall looked bad.” “I’m sorry,” she whimpered, clinging to him. “I didn’t want to cause any trouble. I just wanted to bond with my sister…” My chest hollowed out. Damien glared at me one last time before leading her out. The door slammed shut. And suddenly the house was too quiet—except for the sound of my own breathing, uneven and breaking. I sank to the floor. For a long moment, I just stared at the broken trophy. At the pieces of a life I used to have. A life I gave up willingly… because he asked me to. Because he said he wanted me home, wanted a family, wanted me by his side instead of on runways. I picked up a bent piece of the metal, brushing off dust with trembling fingers. Memories flooded—bright lights, cameras, applause, my name announced, the trophy placed in my hands. Then his voice. “You don’t need to work anymore, love. Stay with me. I’ll take care of you.” I believed him. Stupid. I wiped my cheeks, not realizing when the tears even started. Carefully, I gathered the pieces—every shard, every fragment—and placed them on the table. My hands shook as I tried fitting them together, like maybe if I fixed this, I could fix myself. While I was bent over the table, still crying quietly, I heard footsteps. “Love?” Marc. The fake Damien. He rushed toward me, breathless with performative concern. “Did she hurt you?” he asked gently, touching my arm. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. I would have protected you.” I opened my mouth—ready to snap, ready to scream that I knew who he was, what he was doing, what game they were all playing—but the words lodged in my throat. What was the point? I was leaving anyway. So instead I pulled away, not even looking at him. “I’m fine,” I said quietly. He hovered, unsure, trying again. “Elena… love, look at me—” But I didn’t. I focused on the broken trophy, ignoring the man who kept calling himself my husband… when he wasn’t, Later that night, after hours of silence pressing into the house, after Damien still hadn’t returned, after the ache settled deep in my bones, I finally picked up my phone. I called my manager. Her voice crackled through the line, surprised. “Elena? It’s been a while.” “About the project you mentioned…” I breathed out, staring at the documents on my bed—the divorce papers. “I’m ready. Let’s start again.” She paused. “Are you sure? The conditions still stand. No child for three years. And you’ll be away most of the time—training, shoots, international tours. It’s not going to be easy.” “I know,” I whispered. A long silence stretched between us. Then I said the words that felt like cutting ties with my old life— “Yes. I accept the conditions.”

The hospital lights were too bright. Too white. Too clean for something that felt like a funeral. I lay still on the examination table, staring at the ceiling as the doctor explained the procedure one last time. Her voice was calm, clinical, distant—exactly what I needed. “This is your choice,” she reminded gently. “Once we proceed, there’s no reversing it.” I nodded. “I know.” My voice didn’t shake. Not even once. The baby that never should’ve existed. The child that would’ve chained me tighter to a life that was already suffocating me. A child I didn’t even know how to want anymore—not after everything. The procedure was quick, quiet. By the time it was over, I felt… nothing. No grief. No relief. Just emptiness. I changed back into my clothes, holding the hospital’s discharge papers in my hand like they were evidence of a crime I wasn’t sure I committed against myself. My steps felt heavy as I exited through the automatic doors, the setting sun painting the sky in fading orange. I drove home on autopilot. When I stepped inside the house, the smell of roasted herbs, butter, and something warm greeted me first. I blinked. Marc—fake Damien—stood in the dining room arranging wine glasses, the table set beautifully. Candles lit. Dimmed lights. A scene too soft for the kind of day I had. He looked up immediately. “Love, where have you been?” I froze. He walked toward me, brows knit in concern. “You were gone all day. You didn’t answer my messages. I was worried.” “I just… needed air,” I said simply. I would never tell him. Never tell anyone about the baby. His expression softened. “Well, I thought I’d make you something comforting.” He gestured to the table, almost shy. “And… I got us tickets for the musical you’ve been wanting to see for years.” He lifted two envelope tickets. The Phantom of the Opera – Live. My heart twisted painfully. Once, that would’ve made me cry from joy. Now it only made me tired. “I’m sorry. I’m… not feeling well. I want to rest.” I moved toward the stairs, but a voice stopped me cold. “Not feeling well?” The real Damien stood at the corner of the hallway. Sofia beside him, arms crossed, smirk etched perfectly on her lips. Damien’s eyes were sharp—too sharp. “Or you just don’t want to see me here? Is that it, Elena?” His tone dripped accusation. “I heard from Sofia that you still don’t want to be friends with me, even though I had already apologized.” My stomach flipped. “That is not true!” Sofia laughed. “Oh, please. Let’s be real, Elena. You hated us being here, and you even tried to hurt me. But it’s okay, sister. We’re gonna be a family now. Or was it because you want both twins for yourself again just like before?” I glared at her. “That’s not true. You’re the one who—” “It is,” she insisted, shrugging. The real Marc exhaled in irritation. “Sofia—enough. She is my wife—” But she didn’t stop. “You’ve always been like this, Elena. You act so innocent, but—” “I only want Damien,” I cut sharply, voice cracking. “But clearly… he doesn’t want me.” The silence after that felt like a blow. The real Damien stiffened. Sofia blinked… and the real Marc was also too stunned to speak. I swallowed the lump rising in my throat then I turned away. “Wait—Elena,” Marc called, following me halfway up the stairs. “What’s going on? What was that about?” “It’s nothing,” I said, not looking at him. “I’ll get ready.” “For what?” I finally faced him. “For the opera, love. You already bought the tickets. We can’t waste them.” His relief was immediate—but inside, I felt myself deflate. My hands trembled the whole time I prepared for the evening. The makeup. The dress. The hair. It felt like dressing up a ghost. Dinner was a blur—Marc speaking softly, trying to make me laugh, trying to make me eat. Damien and Sofia arrived, of course. Pretending it was a “family outing.” Pretending nothing happened. Pretending we were all fine. We weren’t. Not even close. The theater was grand—crystal chandeliers, velvet seats, golden arches—but I couldn’t see any of it clearly. The air felt too thick. My skin too hot. My stomach twisted painfully every few minutes. “Elena? Are you okay?” Marc whispered. I forced a nod. But halfway through the show, I couldn’t do it anymore. My vision blurred, heat rushing up my throat. “I—I need air,” I murmured, standing abruptly. “Elena?” Damien whispered behind me, alarm flashing across his features for a split second. But I pushed past him, rushing toward the lobby. The moment the cool night air hit me, my legs buckled. I vomited on the pavement, body trembling so violently I could barely breathe. I leaned on a pillar, chest tight, sweat dripping down my spine. Just breath. Just a second. Just a moment— But the world spun. And then—Two shadows approached. “Hey sweetheart,” one of the men drawled, stepping close—too close. “You look sick. Need help?” The other laughed. “Or maybe you just need company.” The first man reached for my arm. I jerked back. “Don’t touch me.” He smirked. “Relax… you’re all alone out here. We’re just trying to be nice.” My heart pounded. “I said—don’t touch me.” But he didn’t stop. He grabbed my arm, pulling me closer, breath sour with alcohol. “Come on, pretty girl. Don’t make a scene—” “I said let go!” I screamed. But my knees finally gave out. My vision blackened at the edges. The ground rushed up. And I dropped. The last thing I heard before consciousness slipped away was the sound of frantic footsteps— And someone shouting my name. “Elena!”

I woke to the sterile smell of antiseptic and the steady beep of a heart monitor. Hospital. Again. My eyelids felt heavy, but I forced them open. White ceiling. White walls. IV drip attached to my arm. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, too bright, too clinical. I tried to sit up, but my body protested—sore, exhausted, wrung out like I had nothing left to give. What happened? The theater. The men. Collapsing. Voices drifted from outside my room. Low. Tense. Familiar. I froze. "Are you insane, Damien?" Marc's voice—sharp, angry, trembling with something I'd never heard from him before. "Why would you try to kill her? You would let Sofia try to kill her? Let those men harm Elena?" My breath caught. The real Damien answered, voice cold, detached. "So we could be done with this pretending. I'm so done pretending to be Marc. I want it to end." "You want her back, is that it?" Marc snapped. "You realize you don't want Sofia—" "I just want to make things right," Damien interrupted. "Don't even act as if you care for her when you also agreed to end her at first… then just changed your mind." The room tilted. End me? They wanted to kill me? My chest tightened, breaths shallow, heart pounding so loud I thought they'd hear it through the walls. Then Sofia's voice—sweet, venomous. "It's okay. Maybe we can just frame her at your father's birthday party? Make it look like she did something terrible. Then your father would hate her." Silence. Then Damien: "That could work." I pressed my fist against my mouth, biting down to keep from screaming. My phone buzzed on the bedside table. I grabbed it with shaking hands. Carlo Jones: Elena, I heard what happened. Are you alright? Please come to my birthday celebration. I need to talk to you, and can’t wait to see you again. I stared at the message, vision blurring. Carlo. The man who took me in. The man who raised me when my mother couldn't anymore. He wanted to see me. And yet his son wanted to kill me. I typed back with trembling fingers: I'll be there. But it was a lie because I’m done with this. The next morning, Marc walked into my hospital room with flowers—white lilies, my supposed favorite. His face was painted with concern, eyes soft and apologetic. "Love," he breathed, rushing to my bedside. "I'm so sorry. I should've been there with you. I should've protected you from those men." I looked at him, this man wearing my husband's face, and forced myself to smile. "It's okay. You're here now." He sat on the edge of my bed, taking my hand. "I was terrified when I saw you collapse. I thought I'd lose you." "You won't lose me," I whispered. He kissed my knuckles, relief flooding his features. "Good. Because I can't imagine my life without you." Behind him, the door opened. Damien—the real one, pretending to be Marc—stepped in. Sofia clung to his arm, her expression carefully arranged into something resembling guilt. "Elena," Damien said quietly. "I… I wanted to apologize too. For everything at the theater. For not being there fast enough." I stared at him. The man I actually married. The man who chose Sofia over me. The man who just last night agreed to frame me at his father's birthday. "It's fine," I said flatly. Sofia stepped forward, eyes glistening with fake tears. "Sister, I'm so sorry. I know we haven't always gotten along, but seeing you like that… it scared me. I don't want us to fight anymore." She reached for my other hand. I let her take it, even though my skin crawled at her touch. "Thank you, Sofia," I said, voice hollow. "That means a lot." She smiled—victorious, thinking she'd won. Marc squeezed my hand. "We're all family, right? We should be taking care of each other." "Right," I echoed. "Family." They stayed for another hour, playing their parts perfectly. Concerned. Loving. United. And I played mine too. The devoted wife. The forgiving sister. The grateful daughter-in-law. When they finally left, I exhaled slowly, staring at the flowers Damien and Sofia had brought. White lilies. Funeral flowers. How fitting. The next few days were a blur of planning. So I did what I should have done from the beginning—I gathered proof. Photos. Documents. Messages. I hired a private investigator to dig deeper into the yacht accident, into Marc's survival, into the timeline of Damien's disappearance. Everything pointed to the same horrifying truth: they had swapped places. Deliberately. Cruelly. And I had been the pawn in their game. I compiled everything into a folder—evidence that would shatter the lie they'd built. The divorce papers, including the abortion certificate. I would deliver it all to Carlo on his birthday. A gift. A reckoning. But first, I had to play along The morning of Marc's business trip, I drove him to the airport. He held my hand the entire way, thumb brushing over my knuckles like he actually cared. "I'll miss you, love," he murmured as we stood outside the terminal. I smiled. Forced. Practiced. "I'll miss you too." He kissed me—deep, possessive, the kind of kiss meant to mark territory. I kissed him back. When he pulled away, his eyes searched mine. "When I get back… let's talk about the baby. Father wants one. And honestly? So do I." My stomach twisted, but I nodded. "Okay." He grinned, relieved, and kissed my forehead. "I love you, Elena." "I love you too," I whispered. Liar. Liar. Liar. I watched him walk through security, waving one last time before disappearing into the crowd. I waited until his plane took off. Then I drove to my own terminal. My manager was already waiting, ticket in hand. "You ready?" I nodded. I boarded the plane—first class, window seat. As we climbed higher, breaking through the clouds, I pulled out my phone. One by one, I deleted everything. Photos of us. Messages. Contacts. Memories. Every trace of Elena Jones—the wife, the daughter-in-law, the woman who gave up everything for a man who never existed. Gone. I watched the city shrink below me, becoming nothing but lights and shadows. Somewhere down there, Marc thought I was waiting for him. Somewhere down there, Damien thought he could still control me. Somewhere down there, Sofia thought she had won. But I was already gone.