“My real daughter will be returning next month.” Mrs. Thorn’s voice came through the phone—calm, clipped, and utterly emotionless. “Until that day arrives, you will continue acting as her. Don’t make a single mistake. Once everything is resolved, I’ll transfer one hundred million to you. That should buy you a lifetime of comfort.”

“I understand.”

The call ended, and silence swallowed the room. My gaze lifted on its own, settling on the enormous wedding portrait mounted above the fireplace.

Viktor Volkov stood beside me in a tailored black suit, posture straight, gaze distant. He looked every bit the man the world feared—controlled, unreadable, lethal beneath the polish. And me? I was draped in a white wedding gown I had never chosen, wearing a smile rehearsed so many times it no longer belonged to me. I looked compliant. Decorative. Replaceable.

“So this is it,” I murmured to myself. “Six years… and it’s finally reaching the end.”

Six years earlier, the marriage between the Thorn and Volkov families had shaken society pages and political circles alike. Isadora Thorn—their prized daughter—was meant to become Viktor Volkov’s wife. She was born into privilege, raised with precision, molded to stand beside power. A flawless aristocrat. The union promised influence, wealth, and a legacy carved in stone.

Then, just days before the ceremony, Isadora disappeared.

She left behind nothing but a letter.

“Mom. Dad. I know this marriage is expected of me, but I can’t go through with it. I’ll come back after six years. Please… let me have this chance to live freely.”

And just like that, she was gone.

The Thorns found me the same day—while I was scavenging through discarded bottles and scrap metal to sell for spare cash. Their car screeched to a stop so close I nearly fell backward.

Because I looked like her.

The same face. The same frame. Similar hair. Even my voice could pass for hers if I softened the edges. That was all they needed. They took me away without ceremony. I wasn’t their child—just a nobody scraping by with a sick grandmother who couldn’t survive another hospital bill.

They offered me a bargain.

Wear the gown. Stand at the altar. Sign the papers. Say nothing. Live as Isadora Thorn for six years.

In return, I would receive a fortune beyond imagination. Enough to keep my grandmother alive. Enough to ensure I would never again kneel before poverty.

I still remember what Mrs. Thorn said the night before the wedding.

“He has never loved Isadora,” she told me flatly. “His heart belongs to another girl—an orphan his family once supported. A student named Evelyn. Life in that household won’t bring you happiness. But if you keep your head down and endure six years, it will end. Be obedient. Stay alive. Do this for everyone.”

So I did.

I behaved exactly as expected.

Because I knew very well who Viktor Volkov was.

To the public, he was a humanitarian, a corporate visionary, a man shaping the future. But beneath that image, there was another name whispered in fear—the Butcher of Saint-Lorenz. The man responsible for erasing six powerful families in a single winter. A ruler who signed deals with blood and owned every courtroom that dared to judge him.

And Evelyn?

She was the shadow that followed him everywhere.

An orphan his family had once sponsored. The woman he loved. The one he wanted to keep—but couldn’t. She chose freedom instead. She left for London and never looked back, leaving wounds no one else could see.

So the Volkovs gave him Isadora.

And when Isadora ran away, they handed him me.

Life after the wedding was nothing like the fairy tale people imagined.

The mansion was breathtaking—and lifeless. Beautiful halls filled with silence.

His study was worse. Every surface held reminders of her. Evelyn smiling. Evelyn by the sea. Evelyn wrapped in winter coats.

He claimed his trips to London were for business. I knew exactly who he was chasing.

I slept alone, in a guest room at the far end of the corridor. The window rattled all night, and the heater barely worked. I had never set foot in the master bedroom—not even on the night we married.

He rarely looked at me. Only when necessary. Still, I stayed.

I shut myself down inch by inch. He preferred quiet, so I learned not to speak. He came home after midnight, so I waited awake. He had stomach issues, so I taught myself to cook bland meals—ginger porridge, no onions, no seasoning.

I folded myself into whatever shape allowed me to exist beside him.

I wore Isadora’s name like a shield. I memorized her history until my own past blurred into nothing.

Then—slowly—things shifted.

Whispers circulated. Rumors spread. People said Mr. Volkov had grown fond of his wife.

Of me.

He stopped flying to London.

Evelyn’s photo disappeared from his desk.

He remembered my birthday.

When I fell ill, he came home early.

Once, during dinner, he smiled at me.

Just once—but it was enough to make me believe.

For a brief, foolish moment, I thought I mattered. That I had stepped out of Isadora’s shadow. That maybe I had become someone worth choosing.

Then Evelyn returned.

And I vanished again.

He stayed out for days.

Her pictures filled the study once more.

I walked past the hallway and heard him whisper her name as if it were a prayer.

People began to sneer behind my back. A counterfeit wife. A placeholder. A joke foolish enough to fall for a man who never truly saw her.

I didn’t protest. I didn’t shed tears.

Just one month left. Thirty days. One final stretch of pretending to be a woman I had never met. One more month of playing spouse to a man who would scorch the earth for another woman’s smile.

I was just beginning to smile at the thought when my phone vibrated.

Viktor.

I drew in a steady breath and answered. “Yes?”

“The Hexagon Club,” he said coldly. “Bring everything Evelyn asked for.”

His tone was sharp, impatient, unforgiving.

“Immediately.”

The line went dead—but I already knew what he meant.

Evelyn’s cycle. Naturally. He never once remembered mine. Hers, though? I wouldn’t be surprised if it was circled neatly on his schedule, highlighted and color-coded.

I headed straight for his private library without a second thought. Third drawer from the right—exactly where he always kept her things. Imported pain relievers. Unscented organic pads. Bottles of herbal mixtures. Once, he had torn into a maid for moving them even an inch out of place.

I didn’t pause.

I gathered everything she could possibly need, threw on a coat, and went straight down to the garage. His motorcycle was still there—black, heavy, vicious-looking. Even before I started it, the engine seemed to growl. It was the quickest way to reach the Hexagon Club. If I left immediately, I could make it in twenty-five minutes.

The rain began halfway through the ride.

Not a drizzle. A downpour. Violent, blinding sheets that slammed into the road like shards of glass. The asphalt turned slick and reflective, lights stretching into distorted streaks. I could barely see ten meters ahead.

Then it happened.

Headlights veered suddenly into my lane.

A drunk driver—reckless, fast, out of control—missed me by inches. My heart lurched violently as the bike fishtailed across the road. I wrestled with the handlebars, my body nearly thrown free, somehow forcing the machine back under control at the last second.

I didn’t pull over.

I didn’t even ease up on the throttle.

By the time I arrived at the club’s private entrance, my legs were trembling uncontrollably. I was drenched through, aching, freezing to the bone—and two minutes late.

I lifted my hand to knock.

Then I stopped.

Soft laughter drifted through the door.

Her laughter.

“Boss, seriously?” someone said with amusement. “You really made your wife deliver all this in weather like that? From the house to here is, what—almost an hour?”

“Evelyn’s not feeling well,” Viktor replied flatly. “She’ll come.”

Another laugh followed. “Everyone knows your wife’s obsessed with you. Six years and she’s never once complained. Not even when you were out all night with someone else.”

Someone else chimed in, half-teasing, half-curious. “But honestly, Boss… she’s gorgeous. You really never felt anything for her?”

Silence fell.

No one spoke.

I stood there, soaked to the skin, shaking, my heartbeat pounding so loudly it filled my ears.

Then his voice cut through everything.

“No matter if it’s her or Evelyn,” he said calmly, without hesitation. “I’ll always pick Evelyn.”

I stayed outside until the laughter faded, until the moment felt distant enough to breathe. Then I knocked.

When I entered the private room, every gaze turned toward me—some startled, some amused, some openly assessing. I must have looked miserable, hair plastered to my face, clothes clinging unflatteringly, but I walked in anyway. Straight-backed. Composed.

“Damn, you’re punctual!”

“Isadora, you’re drenched,” Viktor said, standing from the couch with a scowl. “What the hell happened to you?”

I held out the small bundle in my hands. Somehow, it was still dry. “I didn’t want to keep you waiting, so I took your bike.”

I didn’t mention the near crash. He wouldn’t have believed me. Or cared.

Something flickered across his face. He shrugged off his jacket and placed it over my shoulders. “Wear that.”

Then, gesturing toward the package, he added, “Take it to the women’s restroom. Evelyn’s there.”

I nodded.

Of course I did.

Silent. Compliant. Just like always.

When I knocked on the bathroom door, her voice answered—soft, weak, trembling in that fragile way she perfected.

“Who’s there?”

“I brought what you need.”

There was a pause. Then the door opened just enough for a hand to reach out. I passed the bag through the narrow gap. She never once looked at me.

I went home after that. Changed out of my soaked clothes. Let hot water burn against my skin in the shower until my body stopped shaking. I had just drifted toward sleep when—

BANG.

The bedroom door slammed open.

Viktor stormed in, fury radiating from him, sharp and suffocating. He didn’t say a word. He simply seized my wrist and dragged me out of bed.

“GET UP.”

“W-What is it?” I gasped, stumbling as he pulled me down the hall. “Viktor—where are you taking me—”

I never finished.

He shoved me without warning.

I fell backward down the stairs. My head struck the edge of a step, pain exploding as my body tumbled helplessly. Warm blood filled my mouth.

When I finally landed at the bottom, the world spun violently. A shrill ringing filled my ears. My skull throbbed like it might split open.

I tried to push myself up, vision blurred. “Why… why are you doing this to me?”

He stood at the top of the staircase, looking down at me. “Did you shove Evelyn?”

My thoughts stalled. “W-what are you talking about?”

“Don’t pretend,” he snapped, descending slowly, each step deliberate. “You’ve been acting like the perfect wife all these years just to fool me. You think I wouldn’t see through that?”

“I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” he cut in sharply. “Did you think I finally fell in love with you?” He grabbed my chin, forcing my head up. “You were never anything but a replacement. A tool in a deal between two families. I don’t care what fantasies you clung to.” His voice dropped, cold and final. “I will never love you. Not now. Not ever.”

Blood slid down my temple as I stared at him. And for a fleeting second… I almost laughed.

He had it all wrong.

I never wanted his love. I never asked for it.

Before I could say a word, he hauled me to my feet by my arm.

“Get in the car.”

“Viktor, please—wait—”

“Evelyn fell from the goddamn fifth floor because of you,” he snarled. “And you’re standing there crying over a little knock to your head? You’re going to the hospital. You’re going to say sorry. And you’re going to get on your knees if you have to and beg her to forgive you.”

My legs were barely holding me upright from the pain, but he didn’t even glance at them. He shoved me forward and slammed me into the passenger seat like I weighed nothing.

The entire drive, I pressed my forehead against the cold window, screaming silently as waves of pain tore through my body. Every bump felt like it was splitting me apart. It honestly felt as though I might fall to pieces before we even arrived.

When we reached the hospital, Viktor didn’t slow down for me. He strode ahead, bursting into the room like he owned the building.

Evelyn lay propped against crisp white pillows, skin pale, eyes glassy. Thick bandages wrapped around her wrists, displayed so deliberately they might as well have been decorations. The moment she noticed me, her eyes widened in perfectly timed fear.

Bitch.

“Benny…” she whispered weakly, her voice trembling. “I—I don’t want her near me. Please… I’m scared of her.”

Viktor crossed the room in three steps. He sat beside her, took her hand gently, like she was something precious and breakable. “Hey. It’s alright. I’m here. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Then he turned toward me.

His gaze froze solid.

“Well?” he demanded. “What are you standing there for? APOLOGIZE.”

I looked at Evelyn. At the frightened little act. At the white bandages. At Viktor holding her like a wounded angel.

Then I asked quietly, “Did I really push you?”

Evelyn’s lashes trembled. Tears spilled instantly. “Mrs. Thorn…” she sobbed softly. “If you don’t want to apologize, it’s fine. I never wanted to create trouble for you.” Her voice shook delicately as she wiped her eyes. “I know Viktor has been spending more time with me lately,” she continued gently. “Anyone would feel hurt. But you and him… your marriage is only business. There was never love. If my background hadn’t been what it was, he wouldn’t have needed to marry anyone else.”

The longer she spoke, the weaker she sounded. The more pitiful her tears became, the darker Viktor’s expression grew.

Then his voice cracked sharply through the room. “Isadora. I told you to apologize, not stir shit.” His stare cut straight through me. “Are you going to do it, or are you testing my patience?”

I stared at Evelyn—at her flawless performance, those wide eyes shining like cracked porcelain.

I knew she was lying.

I knew she hadn’t been pushed.

But I also knew this: if I didn’t cooperate, if I caused even the smallest problem between the Thorns and the Volkovs, my escape would vanish. The hundred million Mrs. Thorn promised would disappear. I would be trapped—this marriage, this cage—forever.

So I swallowed everything.

“I’m sorry,” I said calmly. “It was my fault.”

I turned to leave.

“Not so fast.” Viktor’s voice was colder than steel. “You pushed her. You owned it. So you’re staying.” His eyes were merciless. “You’ll take care of her until she’s discharged.”

I didn’t protest. My fingers curled slightly at my side—but I nodded.

“Alright.”

---

After that, I stayed in the hospital.

Every single day, I attended to Evelyn. I helped her change clothes, brought her meals, fluffed pillows, adjusted blankets—like some mindless service machine. I brushed her hair. Smoothed the sheets. Anticipated her needs before she even spoke.

And Viktor stayed too.

Of course he did.

He ignored cartel matters. Let calls from his men go unanswered. The entire Volkov operation could have collapsed overnight and he wouldn’t have noticed, because Evelyn had a bruised rib and a sprained wrist.

He fed her spoonfuls of porridge. Dabbed her lips with a napkin. Sat beside her bed until she drifted off to sleep.

He had never done any of that for me.

One morning, Viktor’s phone rang. I only caught fragments—“European investors… problem with Dubai… half an hour.” He kissed Evelyn’s forehead apologetically and stepped out.

The moment the door clicked shut, the atmosphere shifted.

Evelyn glanced at the clock, waited a full ten seconds, then slowly turned to me with a lazy, mocking smile.

“Peel the orange, slave,” she said lightly. “And don’t bruise it this time.”

I peeled the orange.

Then she lifted the glass of orange juice and threw it straight at my face.

It splashed loudly against me, soaking my shirt.

“Oh dear,” she said sweetly. “My hand slipped.”

I clenched my teeth.

“Clean it up, Cinderella,” she added casually. “Before Viktor comes back and sees what a disaster you look like.”

Right on cue, the door opened.

Viktor walked in, expression unreadable. His eyes moved from Evelyn… to me.

The spilled juice. My soaked clothes. The shattered glass.

“Evelyn?” he asked, frowning slightly. “What happened here?”

Her eyes filled instantly. “I’m sorry, Benny,” she said softly. “My hand slipped. I didn’t mean to—” Her voice broke.

Viktor sighed. “You don’t need to apologize for her, Evelyn.” He looked at me coldly. “She’s here to serve you. Cleaning up after you is her responsibility.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

My heart should have shattered then.

But it didn’t.

Because there was nothing left to break—it had already turned to ash.