My breath hitched as the words sank in. My best friend. My ex-husband. The two people I had once trusted more than anyone had conspired against me.

I stepped back, feeling my stomach twist with a sickening churn of emotions. In my retreat, my elbow struck the edge of a glass vase—a priceless piece they had won at an auction. It wobbled, then crashed to the floor with an earsplitting shatter.

The room fell into stunned silence. Sharon’s eyes widened in shock. Pierre’s expression turned cold. And then, Sharon, standing just behind him, asked the inevitable question.

“Who helped you escape the prison?”

I ignored her. Although my focus was locked on her. My palm burned with fury before I even realized I had raised my hand and slapped her across the face. The sharp crack echoed through the room.

“Y-You betrayed me,” I whispered, my voice trembling with rage. “You were my best friend, Sharon.”

Sharon, clutching her cheek, let out a bitter laugh. “And you were blind, Dionne. You never saw the truth.”

She turned her gaze toward Pierre, and that was when the final blow landed. “Pierre never loved you. Our relationship started long before your marriage. It was all for your wealth—the inheritance your father left you.”

I felt my chest tighten, suffocated by the weight of betrayal. I turned to Pierre, hoping for denial, some desperate excuse. But he simply shrugged.

“She’s right,” he said, voice devoid of remorse. “You were just a means to an end, Dionne. And I never wanted a child with you. I only needed your fortune.”

I staggered back as if struck. My whole marriage, my life—it had all been a lie. Anguish welled up inside me, but before I could react, Pierre pulled out his phone.

He dialed with ease, his voice calm. “Hello? Yes. My ex-wife is here. She escaped prison. Send the police.”

Panic surged through me. My mind raced for an escape, but then—

BOOM.

An explosion rocked the house.

The ground trembled beneath us. Smoke filled the hallways, and the chandelier above shook violently. Fire erupted from the far end of the mansion, swallowing furniture and décor in its path.

Sharon screamed, clutching Pierre’s arm. “What the hell is happening?!”

The answer didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that they ran, leaving me standing alone in the middle of the chaos.

My ears rang from the explosion, my body frozen. But before the flames could consume me, strong hands grabbed my wrist.

“Come on!”

Francis. His grip was firm, his face unreadable in the flickering firelight. He pulled me through the collapsing house, past burning debris, until we burst into the garden.

There, parked on the open lawn, was a sleek black helicopter.

We climbed in as the rotors roared to life. Just as the police sirens became audible in the distance, we lifted into the sky, escaping into the night.

Inside the helicopter, I stared at Francis, my mind still reeling.

“Why?” I asked breathlessly. “Why are you helping me? Is it really just because you want me to be your surrogate?”

He didn’t answer. His eyes remained fixed ahead, his jaw clenched. The silence stretched until the city lights blurred beneath us, fading into the darkness.

Half an hour later, we landed safely at his mansion.

Days passed in a strange, quiet lull. Francis offered me comfort—his presence steady, his words few but reassuring. And for the first time, I let myself breathe.

But curiosity gnawed at me. I needed to know more about the man who had risked so much for me.

One evening, I found the courage to ask.

“Who are you, really?”

Francis studied me for a long moment before exhaling deeply.

“I was once a Mafia Boss.”

My breath caught. He continued, his tone even, but laced with something distant.

“I built an empire—businesses, power, influence. But my family abandoned me when they found out I had cancer. They thought I was too weak to lead, so they cut me off. Left me with nothing.”

His eyes darkened, shadows of the past flickering across his face.

I felt a sharp pang in my chest. “Cancer?”

“Stage 2 Leukemia,” he confirmed. “And the treatments… they left me barren.”

He took off his wig.

The weight of his words settled over me. He had lost everything—just like I had. Without thinking, I reached for his hand, squeezing it gently.

He didn’t pull away.

Over the next month, a strange routine formed. Francis, despite everything, treated me with care. He asked me to stay—to play the role of his wife. And while I never saw it as romantic, I honored his request. I took care of him when his health wavered, stayed by his side through the difficult nights.

I told myself it was just a temporary arrangement, just a means to survive.

But then, one day, he shattered that illusion.

Francis knelt before me, a ring in his hand.

“Marry me, Dionne.”

"Yes," I whispered, my voice barely audible, but strong enough to make Francis crumble with relief.

He smiled through the tears pooling in his eyes. "Thank you... Thank you. I don’t know how much time I have left, but this means everything."

It wasn’t love—not yet. It was mercy. A dying man begging for companionship in what he believed were his final days. And maybe, in some twisted way, I needed this too—to feel wanted, useful, and perhaps even capable of healing.

Weeks passed in quiet anticipation. Francis' team of private doctors put me through a series of tests. Good thing, Francis is smart enough to store a sperm before he got diagnosed by a deadly cancer. Despite my past miscarriages, the results were in my favor. I was still viable for surrogacy. The procedure was done with utmost secrecy and success. Life grew inside me—a life I hadn’t expected to carry, but one that would eventually change everything.

Soon after, Francis handed me a document. An NDA.

"You’ll need to change your appearance," he said carefully. "For your safety… and for mine. The business world wouldn’t take kindly to me marrying a convicted fugitive."

I stared at the paper for a long time, then signed it. I knew the old Dionne Carté had to die for me to live again.

Nine months passed in concealment. My body swelled with life. I stayed hidden in the countryside villa Francis owned, with only doctors and trusted staff around. When I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, we named him Frederick Troillan.

The moment I saw his eyes—so much like Francis'—I knew something in me had shifted. My body was tired, aching, but in the small, cooing bundle pressed against my chest, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: peace. He was perfect. He was untouched by the world’s cruelty.

Shortly after, I underwent the operation. A complete transformation. My reflection in the mirror no longer showed the woman who had wept in a jail cell or stood broken in a burning mansion.

I was Wayna Scott now. Every trace of Dionne had been erased—from the contours of my face down to the way I carried myself.

And then, I spent a few months in changing my behaviors and the way how I speak. I made sure that I mastered my new personality.

Francis, always true to his word, introduced me to the public as his fiancée a few months later. The media went wild. He became the face of resilience and mystery—the tycoon who’d found love again. Investors swarmed. His empire grew stronger.

Every magazine wanted a piece of our love story. We posed for press photos, smiled at galas, played the perfect couple. And while the world cheered, I remained haunted by the truth. I wasn’t just hiding from the law—I was hiding from myself.

One night, I was walking through the corridor to fetch a glass of wine when I heard him crying softly in his office. Without knocking, I stepped inside.

"Francis?"

He looked up, surprised, but didn’t try to hide his tears. I sat beside him, taking his hand.

“I’m fine,” he said, brushing it off. But I knew better.

Then came the words I never expected. “The doctors called. I’m now... cancer-free.”

DAMN!

Finally, our son can grow up with a Dad beside him.

Tears welled up in my own eyes. The weight he’d been carrying, the silent agony, the uncertainty—all of it vanished in that moment.

I felt something bloom inside me. Something I’d buried deep beneath layers of trauma and survival. I smiled and whispered, “I’m happy for you. I think… I think I’m starting to fall in love with you.”

We hugged each other tightly.

Francis didn’t hesitate. Days later, he began planning our wedding. He wanted it grand. Lavish. A celebration of survival, of rebirth.

Everything felt perfect—until it didn’t.

One afternoon, while Francis was in a heated discussion with the wedding organizer, his phone rang. He gestured for me to answer it.

“Hello?”

Silence. Then a raspy voice on the other end. "I know the truth. I know your fiancée's secret."

My blood turned to ice. I didn’t tell Francis. I couldn’t. Not yet.

NOT IN OUR UPCOMING SPECIAL DAY!

The voice haunted me for days. Who was it? What did they know? And most of all—what would they do with that information?

I threw myself into wedding preparations, pushing the call to the back of my mind. But doubt gnawed at me. The night before the ceremony, I finally confronted him.

“How did you know about me? That I was scheduled to be executed?”

He hesitated, then sighed. "I saw your case in the news. The murder of the farmers. Your face haunted every channel. I did my research, and I believed you were innocent. Once we’re married, I promise—I’ll help you find the real mastermind."

That promise lit a spark of hope in me. Maybe, finally, justice would be within reach. Maybe I wasn’t just running—I was heading toward something that could set me free.

The morning of the wedding arrived in a blur of silk, perfume, and nervous excitement. I wore a custom gown, my newly transformed face glowing in the soft morning light. The gown shimmered like moonlight, delicate lace brushing my ankles as I stepped into the limousine. I stared out the window, watching the city pass like a dream.

We arrived at the cathedral just past noon. Guests were already inside. The media waited outside, hungry for photos. Francis had spared no expense.

As the music began and I stepped into the aisle, I felt like I was walking toward redemption.

The church was vast—pillars climbing toward a golden dome, sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Every step I took echoed through the silence. Eyes turned to me. Whispers followed.

But just before the ceremony could begin, the church doors burst open.

Police in full gear swarmed the aisle. The music screeched to a halt. Gasps filled the air.

“Stop this,” the lead officer barked, stepping forward. “Ms. Dionne Carté, you are under arrest.”

The world tilted. My bouquet hit the marble floor.

The wedding that was supposed to seal my new life ended in chaos.

Gasps rippled through the church like a storm when the police marched in, guns holstered, voices raised. All eyes turned to me—not as a bride, but as a criminal. I stood frozen in place, still clutching my bouquet, heart slamming against my ribs. My veil trembled like the lies it was hiding.

Whispers spread like wildfire.

“That’s her? The murderer? ”

“Isn’t that Dionne Carté?”

“They say she faked her death.”

The ceremony was cancelled before the priest could speak a word. But I didn’t resist. I didn’t run. I simply lowered my gaze and stepped forward, calm and composed as I let the officers escort me into their black car.

Because I was no longer Dionne Carté-Pierré.

I was Wayna Scott.

At the precinct, I was taken to a gray-walled interrogation room. One investigator, cold-eyed and clean-shaven, sat across from me with a thick file on the table. “We’ve received reports that you match the physical profile of Dionne Carté. You have anything to say about that?”

I smiled politely, every movement practiced. “I think you have the wrong person. I’m Wayna Scott. You can check my records. Birthplace: New Haven. Mother: deceased. Father: John Scott, also deceased. I’ve worked under Troillan Construction as a logistics analyst for the past year.”

He studied me with suspicion, probing for cracks. But I was airtight. I had memorized every fabricated detail Francis had trained me on. From fake childhood trauma to my fake college diploma—I’d become someone else entirely.

After several hours of questioning and background checks, they let me go. There were no fingerprints matching Dionne’s. No DNA records they could pull. I’d passed.

In the parking lot, I found Francis leaning against his car, arms crossed, tension carved deep into his face. I rushed toward him. “They let me go. I followed every line we rehearsed.”

He didn’t smile.

“They’re coming,” he said simply.

My blood turned to ice. “Who?”

“My family.”

Of course. The mafia.

But why?

We didn’t talk further. Just drove home in silence, the hum of the engine masking the thunder in my chest. Over the next few weeks, Francis transformed the mansion into a fortress. Motion sensors were installed. Biometric locks. Armed guards stationed at every entrance. We doubled the security around Frederick. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone even brushing against his crib.

Meanwhile, Francis fought to keep the Troillan Construction Empire from crumbling. There were whispers among investors, suspicions about us, rumors about my arrest. To stabilize the waters, Francis publicly postponed our wedding and held emergency meetings to reassure stakeholders.

But then he came to me with something I never expected.

“I’m going to invest in Pierré Gadot’s Real Estate group.”

I nearly dropped my wine glass.

“What? Are you insane?! He’ll recognize me!”

Francis sat across from me, calm and calculated. “This is our chance to gain access—to get closer. You want revenge? You want the truth? This is how we get it.”

I hated it. I hated Pierre. I hated how my hands still shook at the mention of his name. But Francis wasn’t wrong. We’d been hiding too long. So I nodded.

“If this backfires, we’re both dead.”

Two days later, we walked into a sleek marble-floored lobby for the signing of the investment deal. And there they were—Pierre and Sharon.

Married.

Seeing them side by side was like watching my past twist a dagger into my spine. Sharon wore an expensive pearl dress, her smile venomous. Pierre looked at me with a hint of curiosity, then a nod.

He didn’t recognize me.

I was no longer Dionne in his eyes—just Wayna, Francis’s silent fiancée.

The four of us smiled for the cameras, posed with fake ease. Business first, murder second.

For the next few months, we played our roles perfectly. Francis and I attended dinners with them, laughed at their shallow jokes, shook hands on construction projects. I stood feet away from the man who ruined my life, who discarded me like garbage, and he didn’t see it. He didn’t see me.

Until he did.

It was a Thursday night when I received a message from Francis. It read: “Meet me at Maison de Rouge. I have the full story. The truth about the farmers’ deaths.”

I didn’t hesitate. I wore a black coat and left quietly. I was trembling—not from fear, but hope. Maybe this was it. Maybe we could finally close the chapter and move on.

But when I arrived… it wasn’t Francis waiting for me.

It was Pierre.

He was seated at a table in the center of the empty restaurant, swirling a glass of red wine. Every chair was empty. The staff was gone.

I froze. “W-Where is Francis?”

He looked up slowly, his smile predatory.

“I knew it! You’re that bitch ex-wife of mine, right?”

I flinched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” he sneered. “You thought a nose job and dyed hair would fool me? I always knew it was you. I was just waiting for the right moment.”

My throat dried. I backed a step. “WHERE'S FRANCIS?”

“That’s what you should be worried about.”

He leaned forward, voice low.

“Francis will be handed to his family tonight.”

I blinked. “W-What? You know his family? Then that means…”

The blood drained from my face.

“Y-You’re part of the mafia?”

Pierre chuckled darkly, then leaned back in his chair, savoring my horror like a fine drink.

“Not just part of it,” he said slowly. “I’m the replacement for your lovely husband. The mafia organization needed a new leader. One not dying of cancer.”

“No,” I whispered. “You’re lying.”

“And one more thing, sweetheart,” he added. “I’m taking Frederick. The family wants him too. We're planning something." He chuckled.

NO! FUCK YOU, PIERRE!

“W-What are you planning?" I asked with a trembling voice.