They discovered me around twenty minutes later.

Two guards from the auction house — both young, both visibly nervous — stumbled into the cold storage room where I lay. They looked like they were used to dealing with drunken brawls between billionaires, not half-conscious women on freezing floors.

The metal door groaned open, echoing like a sound underwater. My head refused to lift. My mouth wouldn’t form words. My body was locked in place — muscles rigid, fingers stiff, skin clammy from the cold.

“Miss—miss! We need medical assistance down here! Now!” one of them shouted, voice trembling.

The rest blurred together — noise and motion bleeding into each other. Arms lifted me off the ground. Warmth brushed my skin and I let out a small, broken sound before darkness swallowed me again.

Everything after that came in flickering fragments — lights flashing against white ceilings, the hiss of oxygen tubes, the sterile beeping of machines. Someone tucked thick blankets around me, whispering instructions I couldn’t understand. The sounds grew softer, slower. Someone uttered the word trauma like it was nothing more than another checkbox to tick off.

Not once did my phone ring.

No messages.

No missed calls.

No sign of Toby.

I waited — foolishly — to hear his voice just one more time. But silence was all I got.

Later, I found out the reason why. Marcelline had told him I checked into a hotel — that I wanted space to calm down, to “cool off.”

And he’d believed her. Instantly. Without a shred of doubt.

He always believed her. Always.

---

By the time I dragged myself back home, exhaustion had sunk into my bones. My reflection in the hallway mirror looked pale and hollow — a ghost wearing my skin.

The house was immaculate. Too quiet. Too polished. Like no one had actually lived there for years.

And then I saw him — standing right in the middle of the living room.

Toby.

Or Leon.

Or whoever the hell he decided to be today.

He didn’t move as I stepped inside. His posture was rigid, face hard, eyes burning with something I couldn’t name. It was the kind of look that came from hours of rehearsing what to say and how to say it.

I barely made it three steps before he thrust a sheet of paper toward me.

A medical form.

I didn’t need to unfold it to know what it was.

I recognized the crisp white of the abortion documents I had tucked deep inside my drawer — a drawer Marcelline must have rifled through while I was gone. She probably handed it to him herself, triumphant.

“You wanna explain what the hell this is?” he snapped, voice rough, tight with fury.

I didn’t answer. I just looked at him — calm, blank — while he held that paper like it was bleeding in his hands.

“You killed my brother’s child?” he shouted, his face twisting. “You—what? Just threw it away? Like it meant nothing? Like it was garbage?”

I blinked once. Slowly.

He took a step forward, voice rising. “You’re not even sorry, are you? You look proud of yourself. Tell me, Aria — is this your revenge? Is this how you prove you’re strong?”

Then it happened.

A sharp, echoing crack.

His hand connected with my cheek, snapping my head sideways. The taste of iron filled my mouth.

I didn’t fall.

But I staggered.

Before I could even steady myself, another blow came — smaller, but fiercer.

His mother.

She stood trembling with rage, her pearl necklace clattering against her chest like it could feel her anger, too.

“You heartless creature,” she hissed. “You killed our blood! You threw away that baby like it was filth on the street!”

Her palm struck me again — a sharp slap that stung across my skin.

“Marcelline told us everything,” she seethed. “You never loved this family. You were nothing but a charity case — a pretty little project. And now look at you. Empty belly, empty heart.”

Tears rolled down my cheeks. Not because of pain — that had burned out long ago — but because my body didn’t know what else to do. I stood there and let them curse me, let them spit their venom and call it justice.

Then something in me hardened.

I straightened, wiped the blood from the corner of my lip, and looked Toby in the eye.

“Why are you angry?” I said quietly. “If I ended the pregnancy… what does it matter? You’re not Toby. You’re his brother. Remember?”

His face went pale. His jaw slackened. But I didn’t stop.

“Stop pretending to be him,” I said flatly.

Marcelline laughed behind him — a high, brittle sound that cut through the air like glass. “You hear that, baby?” she taunted, stepping closer. “She’s finally figured it out. You’re mine now. She’s just bitter because her fairytale ended.”

She leaned lazily against the wall, her grin curving like a blade. “And let’s be honest — she never wanted that baby. She just needed something to make her look pitiful.”

That was when I smiled. Not the kind that warms. The kind that wounds.

“Or maybe,” I said slowly, holding Toby’s gaze, “you are Toby. And you’ve been pretending to be Leon all along.”

The air went still. Even Marcelline froze.

“But whichever you are,” I continued, stepping forward, “I don’t care anymore.”

My voice didn’t tremble. It didn’t rise. It was calm — deadly calm.

“I’m done. I’m not part of this family anymore.”

I looked at each of them — the woman who once called me daughter, the man who once promised forever, the mistress who wore my perfume and my place.

And I smiled.

“Whatever love I had left,” I whispered, “died in that frozen room.”

Toby’s expression cracked — his eyes wide, his mouth unsteady. The panic in his face was unmistakable — the kind that hits when you finally realize you’ve gone too far and there’s no way back.

“Marcelline—” he started, his voice shaking.

But I was already walking away.

That night, there was a knock — faint, almost afraid to be heard.

The door creaked open a moment later, but I didn’t bother turning around.

He stepped in quietly, every movement deliberate, like even the floorboards might shatter under his weight. In his hands was a small tray — a bowl of soup, a slice of bread, and the same tea he used to bring me when I was pregnant.

He placed it down on the bedside table as if afraid to make a sound, then finally spoke — his voice calm, too careful. The same fake composure he always used when pretending to be the concerned brother.

“I shouldn’t have hit you,” he said, eyes flicking toward the bruise he caused. “I lost control. You just—took me by surprise. That baby... it was the last piece of my brother left. I didn’t know what else to do.”

I didn’t respond. Didn’t blink. My eyes stayed fixed on the wall, as if I could see a world beyond it — anywhere but here.

He continued, his tone softening like it might disguise the guilt.

“You have to understand, Aria. I only want to protect Toby’s memory. He adored you, and seeing you this broken—it hurts. I just want you to feel safe again. Seen. Even if I can only do that as his brother.”

I finally turned my head slightly, meeting his gaze with nothing but ice.

“Don’t start pretending to care now,” I said flatly. “You’re years too late.”

His jaw tightened, a flicker of pain cutting across his face, but he said nothing. I didn’t touch the food. Didn’t move.

He watched me in silence, probably waiting for the version of me who used to cling to him — the woman who’d cry into his chest and forgive him with trembling lips. But she was gone. Frozen to death in that storage room Marcelline locked me in.

He sat beside me anyway. The bed sank under his weight, and he draped a blanket around my shoulders like it could erase everything — the bruises, the silence, the truth.

“You used to love it when Toby tucked you in,” he murmured.

I didn’t answer. Every word that left his mouth felt like venom disguised as comfort.

---

Sometime later, I woke to the sound of screaming. Piercing, dramatic, and far too loud to be real.

I didn’t even need to check to know who it was.

Marcelline.

Putting on another show.

When I opened the bedroom door, she was already sprawled in the hallway floor — makeup smeared, her silk slip torn, fake scratches clawed across her arms and neck. Blood dotted her skin, shallow enough to look serious, but not enough to actually hurt.

She wailed when she spotted me, voice trembling with theatrical horror.

“Why are you doing this to me?!”

Then came the thunder of footsteps — Toby’s — as he rushed into the scene. His eyes widened at the sight of her, panic flaring instantly.

“Marcelline! What happened?!”

She threw herself at his legs like some tragic heroine, sobbing uncontrollably.

“She attacked me,” she cried between gasps. “I went to check on her, to help her move on. I know she hates me because Leon looks like Toby. I was only trying to comfort her—then she snapped!”

She looked up at him, eyes glistening with perfectly timed tears. “I’m dying, Toby. You know I am. I only have months left. And she wants to destroy me before I even reach my grave. If she wants you, let her have you. Just let me die in peace.”

Her cries grew louder, almost animalistic, echoing through the hall.

I didn’t say a word.

Toby’s eyes darted between us — confusion twisting quickly into fury.

He moved fast, standing in front of me before I could even blink. His chest heaved, his eyes wild.

“What the hell did you do to her?!” he roared.

I didn’t even flinch.

“She’s dying, Aria!” he shouted. “She has four months left, and she’s been nothing but kind to you. She’s been trying to make peace—and you beat her?”

A laugh broke from my throat. Not out of humor. Out of exhaustion. A sharp, bitter sound that tasted like finality.

“You’re both pathetic,” I said.

Then I slapped him.

Hard. With every ounce of betrayal that had built up — for every lie, every manipulation, every time he let Marcelline replace me piece by piece.

He just stared at me, stunned, like the mask had finally cracked.

“You used to be kind,” he whispered, voice trembling. “You used to be human.”

I stepped closer, close enough for him to see the tears I refused to let fall.

“And you used to be mine,” I whispered back. “But now, you’re hers.”

For a brief moment, something shifted in his face — something real. Like he wanted to confess. Like he might finally admit the truth he’d been hiding since the day he let me mourn him as a dead man.

But then Marcelline made a sound behind him — a weak, pitiful cough, followed by a dramatic collapse.

She hit the ground perfectly on cue. “Toby… please… I can’t breathe…”

That was enough to break his focus.

“Shit—Marcelline!” he cried, scooping her into his arms. “Stay with me, baby. Stay with me!”

He shouted for help, for the driver, for anyone who could play savior to her act.

I didn’t move. I just watched him carry her away — the woman he chose over me, the woman he built this entire nightmare for.

---

Moments later, his mother appeared at the end of the hall. Her hair was pulled tight, her eyes burning with disgust. She didn’t even ask what happened.

“You’re evil,” she hissed, her words cutting like glass. “I should have seen it sooner. You wore that mask so well — gentle, innocent — but underneath it, you’re cruel. Heartless. A killer.”

I tilted my head slightly, unbothered.

“I should’ve never let you into this family,” she continued. “You don’t deserve the Mercer name.”

I stepped closer and whispered, “Then take it back. I never needed it.”

---

Two of Toby’s men appeared, gripping my arms before I could move. I thrashed, kicked, screamed — but it didn’t matter.

They dragged me down the long hallway, my feet scraping the floor, my voice echoing uselessly in the silence. No one intervened.

At the hospital, they forced the doors open and shoved me inside a sterile room.

Marcelline was there. Lying pale and lifeless against white sheets, tubes in her arm, pretending to be a saint near death.

Toby’s voice came next — cold and sharp. “Kneel.”

I blinked. “What?”

He pointed to the floor — a square patch covered in coarse sea salt.

“Kneel,” he repeated. “On the salt.”

A small, humorless smile touched my lips. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“You assaulted my wife,” he said, his tone biting. “You made her collapse. You’re going to kneel there and think about what you’ve become.”

He leaned closer, his words dropping low, heavy.

“And when she wakes up, you’re going to apologize.”

I didn’t move. I didn’t even let myself breathe too deeply.

But I didn’t fight back, either.

Instead, I walked—slowly, quietly—to the center of that floor littered with coarse salt, each step crunching under my heels like glass. Then, wordlessly, I sank to my knees.

The sting came instantly.

It was sharp, raw, like fire biting through skin. Every grain of salt was a knife twisting into my flesh, cutting into my bones. Yet I didn’t flinch. My face remained calm. My spine straight. My mouth sealed shut.

Time distorted after that. Every second dragged itself across me like the dull edge of a blade. The air turned thick, heavy, unending.

By the end of the first hour, I felt something warm trickling down my shins—blood.

By the second, my sight blurred into soft colors, the edges of the room fading into a haze.

By the third, I didn’t feel human anymore. I was only a vessel of pain, hollowed out, while they watched to see if I’d shatter.

Still, I refused to make a sound.

Then, movement.

A faint stir from the bed.

Marcelline.

Like she’d timed it for effect, she fluttered her lashes delicately, let out a faint, pitiful sigh, and turned her head with all the fragility of a woman in a melodrama.

“Leon…?” Her voice cracked like porcelain—dainty, weak, rehearsed.

He was at her side before I could even blink.

He brushed her hair from her face, gazing at her as though she hadn’t been the very reason my world collapsed. She looked around groggily, then—like a saint surveying sin—her eyes landed on me.

There I was. Kneeling. Bleeding. Silent. Refusing to fall.

“Leon,” she whispered faintly, “why… why is she like that?”

“She needed time to think,” he said gruffly. “You could’ve died.”

Her eyelids fluttered again. Perfectly timed. Then, predictably, the tears began to slide down her cheeks—slow, graceful, controlled.

“Please,” she said softly. “Don’t make her kneel for me. She’s grieving too. She lost her fiancé on their wedding day. I know she resents me, but… I’ve always cared for her.”

Her hand trembled just enough as she touched his wrist. “Please, my love. Don’t let hatred consume you. I don’t want my pain to turn you into someone cruel. When I’m gone, promise me you’ll forgive her. Promise you’ll let both of you heal.”

Then she broke into sobs—loud, wet, convincing. It was a performance, and she knew exactly when to hit her marks.

I couldn’t help it.

A sound escaped me—not a cry, but laughter.

Low, cracked, bitter.

I raised my head slowly. Blood had already seeped through the silk of my dress. My knees were open wounds, my throat parched. And yet all I could do was laugh harder.

“You’re not dying,” I rasped. “You’re performing.”

“Aria, stop,” Toby snapped, his jaw tightening.

“No.” My voice cut through the air like broken glass. “You want me to crumble? You want me to break like her? Then do better than salt and silence. Because no matter how hard you try, you can’t rewrite what you did.”

I took a shaky breath.

“You abandoned me. Lied to me. Left me drowning in grief while you played house with a woman who wore my perfume and smiled at my grave.”

His face hardened. His eyes—those eyes I once trusted—refused to meet mine.

Marcelline sniffled softly. “Why are you saying this?” she whispered. “Why are you trying to hurt us?”

“Because it’s the truth,” I said simply. “And the worst part is—you both know it.”

I pushed myself up. Every movement burned, every nerve screamed, but I stood anyway. Blood ran down my legs, mixing with salt that clung to me like sin. Still, I kept my balance. Still, I met his gaze.

“You’re not punishing me,” I murmured, voice almost calm. “You’re punishing yourself. Because I’m still standing, and that terrifies you.”

He didn’t respond. He just stared at me, like reality was finally peeling back the mask he’d been hiding behind.

---

By the time I was discharged from the hospital, the wounds on my knees had reopened beneath the bandages. The salt had embedded itself deep, like it didn’t want to leave me.

When we got home, Toby pretended nothing had happened.

He followed me quietly into the house, wearing that same old mask of tenderness. He moved carefully, gently, as if trying to convince himself that everything was fine.

He returned a few minutes later carrying a steaming cup of tea.

“You should drink something warm,” he said softly, setting it down in front of me. “Ginger. You used to like this, remember?”

I stared at the cup, then at him.

There was nothing left in my face—no anger, no sorrow. Just emptiness.

“I need air,” I muttered. That was all.

He reached toward me, maybe to stop me, maybe to pretend he still had the right to touch me. But before his hand met mine, a shrill voice crackled through the intercom upstairs.

“Leon—!” Marcelline’s voice screamed, panicked and breathless. “I—I can’t breathe! Please! My chest—it hurts!”

Toby’s head snapped up, panic flooding his features. Without hesitation, he ran for the stairs.

“Stay here,” he barked over his shoulder. “Don’t go anywhere.”

But I was already at the door.

---

A taxi waited by the curb.

Not fancy, not suspicious—just a plain black sedan with tinted windows. The driver, a middle-aged man in sunglasses, gave me a small nod as I approached.

I slipped into the backseat, ignoring the sticky feeling of blood soaking through my bandages. I didn’t flinch, didn’t wince. I’d already spent three hours kneeling on salt. Pain meant nothing now.

“Ms. Linton?” the driver asked, tone calm, measured.

I nodded.

“Good,” he said quietly. “We’re set. Gareth cleared the path. We’ll take the longer route—less traffic, fewer eyes. When we reach Marker 17… it starts.”

I said nothing. My eyes stayed on the road winding up the mountainside.

---

Halfway up the mountain, the driver spoke again.

“We’ll switch vehicles once the report goes public. The stand-in’s already arranged. Female corpse—similar height, build. Gareth had her kept on ice for two weeks. The blast will make sure she’s unrecognizable. But your DNA—blood, hair, ID, jewelry—everything’s ready for confirmation.”

I nodded once, slow and deliberate. “Thank you.”

He glanced at me through the rearview mirror, studying me for a moment. “Gareth said you’d thank me like that. No fear. No emotion. Just quiet. Like someone who’s already said goodbye to the world.”

He was right. Because I had.

I died the day of my wedding. The day the helicopter never came. The day I realized I’d been replaced by a woman who cried on cue and smiled at my ruin.

I turned to the window, watching the fog thicken outside, and whispered, barely audible, “Make sure they see it. Make sure they believe it.”

The driver didn’t respond. He only pressed down on the accelerator.

---

Three minutes later, the explosion tore through the silence.

It sounded like thunder breaking open the sky. A flash of orange swallowed the trees, then a plume of black smoke spiraled upward. The car flipped twice before bursting into flames, fire blooming against the night.

People down the mountain saw it. Some screamed. Others ran for help. A shepherd called it in before the flames died.

When rescue arrived, they found what was left of a body—charred beyond recognition.

Beside it lay a melted wristwatch, the metal warped but the engraving still faintly legible: Aria.

A half-burned wallet lay a few inches away, and what remained of the ID still bore the name:

Aria Linton

---

Toby’S POV

The kettle whistled just as I was pouring Marcelline her tea.

My phone buzzed on the counter, and without checking who it was, I answered impatiently.

“Yeah?”

“Boss! Boss—it’s Ms. Aria—” the voice on the other end stammered. “There’s been an accident. A car crash—she’s gone, sir. Dead. Just happened ten minutes ago!”