I lit the candle in silence.

It was a soft white flame, steady and still, unlike my trembling fingers as I placed it beside the tiny pair of socks we had bought just a month ago. Blue and cotton-soft. Denver had picked them out, said they reminded him of the sky. He had said he wanted our son to grow up brave.

I knelt in front of the little altar I had made for our baby and closed my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, voice quaking. “I should’ve protected you better. I should’ve seen them for what they are. I’m sorry you never got a chance to meet this world... but maybe that’s a blessing too.”

I stayed like that for minutes—or maybe hours—just letting the grief pass through me. When I finally stood, I knew what I had to do next.

It was time to move on.

I started with the nursery.

Every folded onesie. Every pacifier. Every soft animal blanket. Every memory I thought we would build was packed into boxes. And then, I added the things Denver gave me—the anniversary necklaces, the journals, even the framed photo of us on our honeymoon in Italy where he whispered, “You’re my everything.”

All lies.

I carried the boxes out to the fire pit behind the house, lit a match, and watched the past burn.

Ash curled up into the air like ghosts escaping. As I stood there, the wind catching my hair, I remembered the first time I met Denver.

Five years ago.

It was the night I was told I was the rightful heiress to the Montera Group. Everything I knew about my life had unraveled in a single breath. But Denver was there. Calm, warm, persuasive. My family said it was fate—he was the son of a partner corporation, a perfect face for the merger.

And me? I was foolishly in love. At first sight, even. He made me feel seen.

At least in the beginning. But love from a man like Denver came with conditions. Expectations. Manipulation.

And betrayal.

After the flames died down, I returned inside to clean. I opened Denver’s closet to arrange his things, still like a perfect wife.

That’s when I saw it. A box tucked behind his jackets. I pulled it out, curious. It was heavier than I expected.

When I opened it, my heart stopped.

A photo album. And not just any album—prenup photos. Of Denver. And Patricia.

I stared at the glossy images, each one a dagger. Patricia in a white gown. Denver in a black tuxedo. Her smiling at him like a woman in love. Him holding her like a man who had already moved on.

The dates were recent. Just days before the accident. My mouth went dry. My legs threatened to give out beneath me. But I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I simply closed the box, and walked it outside.

I told myself I’d already mourned enough.

When I came back in, the scent of garlic and butter wafted through the house. Patricia was in the kitchen, flipping shrimp on the pan like she belonged there. My mother, Paula, and my father, David, were seated at the dining table. Denver was setting out wine glasses, smiling like everything was perfectly normal.

I paused at the doorway.

Patricia turned and beamed at me. “Just in time. I made shrimp pasta. It’s one of Denver’s favorites—and Mom’s.”

We sat down. The plate was set in front of me, steaming, garnished with parsley.

I just stared at it.

“What’s wrong now?” my mother snapped, already impatient. “You’re not going to eat?”

“I’m… not hungry,” I murmured.

She sighed and waved a hand. “Always the difficult one. Can’t you at least appreciate your sister’s effort?”

Patricia tilted her head. “It’s okay, really. She doesn’t have to eat if she doesn’t want to.”

“She should,” Denver cut in smoothly. “Patricia went through the trouble. Don’t be rude, Alicia. It’s not always about you.”

Not always about me?

I bit my lip. Hard. They didn’t know. Or maybe they did and simply forgot.

I was allergic to shrimp. I had been hospitalized for it once. A full-blown anaphylactic shock. But no one remembered. No one asked.

Not even Denver. Not even my own mother because even if I said no, they forced me to eat, just for Patricia.

“Fine,” I said, swallowing my pride—and spoonful of pasta.

It only took seconds.

My throat began to tighten. My chest felt like it was caving in. I couldn’t breathe.

I clutched the table edge, gasping.

“What now?” Paula snapped. “Is the food not good enough for you?”

“She’s doing this on purpose,” Denver muttered, sipping his wine. “If you didn’t like it, you could’ve just said so, Alicia.”

I tried to speak, but no sound came out.

My vision blurred. Spots danced in the corners of my eyes. I was drowning in air.

Then—darkness.

The antiseptic scent of the hospital room was the first thing I registered.

Then the beep. Soft and steady, like it was reminding me that I was still alive.

I blinked, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece together how I’d gotten here—until the taste of shrimp returned to my mouth like a cruel joke, and everything came rushing back. The dinner table. Their laughter. My body betraying me.

I sighed, turning my head slowly toward the window. The sunlight was soft, golden.

I was alone. I sat up, ignoring the slight tug of the IV in my hand. I reached for my phone, the screen lighting up with unread notifications. None from Denver. None from Patricia. None from my mother or father.

I then opened my social media. And there it was.

A photo from Patricia’s story, now gone from her feed but still fresh in my memory. Them at an art auction—laughing. My parents beside them. Denver standing behind Patricia, his hand resting casually on her lower back.

The caption read: “Celebrating life with those who matter.”

A jagged laugh tore from my throat. So that was it. I had nearly died, and they were sipping champagne under chandeliers. Well. it was also my fault for eating it. I thought they would notice me after this. Yet, I was wrong—I would never be part of the family even if I am the real daughter.

I dropped the phone onto the bed and looked around. No flowers. No cards. Not even a fruit basket.

When I asked the nurse if anyone had come to check on me, she gave me an apologetic smile and said, “No, ma’am. No visitors so far.”

Even after all this time—even after the truth about the bloodline, the switched lives, the heartbreak—they still loved Patricia more. Always more.

And me? I had loved them too much. I gave them my everything. My name. My future. My body. Even my baby. And what did I get in return?

Disregard. Disrespect. Disgust.

But I was done.

That afternoon, I received a text from my lawyer.

Lawyer: Divorce has been finalized. The official documents are en route.

Then Rain messaged me, ever the savior in my life.

Rain: Everything’s ready. Do you want to disappear? Or… marry a stranger and make your own headlines? I can arrange both.

Me: Anything. Anyone. Just get me out of here.

I signed my own discharge forms and left the hospital with nothing but my coat and my silence. The air outside hit colder than I expected. I took it as a sign—there was nothing left for me here. Not warmth. Not family. Not love.

I returned to the mansion to collect a few things before I’d vanish for good. No one noticed. The house was abuzz with preparations for the annual Montera gala. Guests. Lights. Champagne flutes. Patricia in center stage, directing florists and string quartets like she was the queen of it all.

She turned and offered me a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, you’re back. Alicia… I’m sorry about what happened. I didn’t mean for you to get sick.”

My mother looked up from the planner. “She just wants attention. Always has. And if she knew she was allergic, why would she eat it? What a useless bitch!”

I looked down. It hurts. But I didn’t want it to burn inside me.

Then my mother tossed a clipboard at me. “Since you’re here, help organize the final details. And if anything goes wrong, it’s on you.”

Of course. Always me.

I worked until dawn. Every seating chart. Every floral arrangement. Every email and phone call. I barely ate. Barely slept. But I endured. Because I had a plan.

Just a few more days.

During a break, I wandered into the hall and caught Denver and Patricia whispering near the piano. His fingers brushed her cheek. She giggled. They leaned in too close.

When I passed, he pulled away and gave me that same old line.

“She’s just my friend. You know that, right? So don’t look at us like you’re jealous. We’ve always been close. Even before you came into the picture—it was supposed to be us.”

He said it like I was the mistake. The intruder.

I didn’t reply.

That night, as I finally lay down in the guest room—barely able to keep my eyes open—I heard it.

Soft moans. Muffled gasps. Patricia’s room was down the hall, but the sounds carried. The headboard creaked. A sharp intake of breath. Then Denver’s voice—low, familiar.

I walked out into the hallway and stood frozen outside the cracked door.

There, through the sliver, I saw them. Tangled. Sweaty. Sheets wrapped around their bodies like silk secrets. Her laugh. His groan.

I just turned around and walked back to my room.

Today was the final stretch before the gala. One more day of pretending. One more day of smiling through a hollow.

I wrapped a scarf around my hair, pulled on my coat, and headed toward the main hall to double-check the placement cards. That was when the door creaked open behind me.

Patricia. Her smile was different now—sharp around the edges, too polished to be sincere. There was no audience this time. No parents. No Denver. Just us. And when it was just us, Patricia was never sweet.

She stepped into the room like she owned it. “You’re up early,” she said with mock cheer. “Still playing the diligent servant? That’s so admirable.”

I said nothing. I didn’t need to. I knew exactly who she was when no one was looking.

This wasn’t new. I still remembered the time she’d shattered my favorite porcelain doll when—then screamed that I pushed her into the cabinet. I got grounded. She got a new dress.

Another time, she convinced me to sneak cookies from the kitchen and then cried to our mother when we were caught. I took the blame. She got praised for being honest.

Even when we were older, she’d whisper cruel things in passing:

"Denver only married you because of the merger."

"You’ll always be second-best, Alicia. Doesn’t matter whose blood runs in your veins."

It never stopped. And worse, no one ever believed me when I tried to tell the truth. I was always the liar. The ungrateful one. The burden.

Maybe it had been a mistake, choosing to leave behind the couple who raised me with love, the ones who tucked me in at night and kissed my bruises for my real parents. But they were gone now.

I thought coming back to my blood family would mean I belonged somewhere. I was wrong.

Patricia crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe. “I need you to do something,” she said, voice crisp. “Don’t attend the gala tomorrow.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” She walked closer, pulling an envelope from her coat. “There’s a ticket here. One-way. To the province. I booked you a resort for a week. You like quiet places, don’t you?”

She set the envelope down on my dresser like it was some peace offering. “You don’t need to be at the gala. You’ll only ruin it. And you should stay away from Denver while you’re at it. You’re not fit for him, Alicia. Never were.”

There it was. Her real voice. Cold. Entitled. Cruel.

“I know what you saw,” she added softly. “And it doesn’t matter. You’re still married… for now. But it’s only a matter of time.”

I looked at her—really looked at her. And for the first time, I didn’t flinch. I didn’t fold.

“You don’t have to worry,” I said, voice even. “After tomorrow, you’ll never have to see me again.”

Her eyes flickered. “Good.”

I walked out without another word.

That night, I took a long bath. Soaked in lavender, let the steam blur the mirror and my mind. I was exhausted. Not from the errands or the decor prep. From pretending. From staying silent.

When I stepped out, wrapped in a robe and toweling my hair, the door slammed open.

It was my mother. Without warning, she threw something at me. A gown. Beaded, emerald green.

“What the hell is this?” she snapped, tossing a delicate velvet box at me. The lid flipped open on impact, revealing a broken gold chain and shattered emerald pendant.

I stared at it, stunned. “Is that your necklace?”

She crossed her arms. “Patricia said she saw you near my room. Did you do this?”

I blinked, still staring at the broken emerald pendant, my voice soft. “No. I didn’t even go near your room.”

She scoffed. “Liar. Patricia said she saw you. You’ve always been jealous of what isn’t yours. And now you’re breaking things?”

“I didn’t—” My breath caught in my throat. “I swear I didn’t do it.”

That was all it took.

A sharp crack filled the room. My head snapped to the side.

She had slapped me.

Hard.

The sting bloomed across my cheek, my skin burning, my ears ringing—not from the pain, but from the words that followed.

“I should’ve left you with those peasants who raised you!” she shouted. “You think you’re our blood? You’ll never be one of us. I regret ever claiming you as my daughter. Patricia is my only child.”

My body froze. Her words settled like lead in my chest.

Then she turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

I stood there, trembling, the box still in my hands, the sound of my own heartbeat thudding in my ears.

A soft knock.

Then Patricia stepped inside.

“Are you okay?” she asked gently, reaching for me.

I pulled back instinctively, but she came closer—offering me that same false comfort she always wore like perfume.

“You know,” she said in a voice only I could hear, her hand brushing my arm with sisterly sweetness. “Maybe she’s right. No one really loves you. You’re just…extra.”

Her words sliced deeper than the slap.

Before I could stop myself, something inside me snapped.

I shoved her.