Mary turned to me, lips curling into a smug smirk. Then, in a voice chillingly identical to Mrs. Jacobson’s, she spoke:

"I've been studying her every day—her posts, her photos, her routines. I know what she eats, how she smiles, even the way she breathes."

"From this moment on, I am the only Mrs. Jacobson in this world."

"You’ll always be beneath me—out of reach."

Her performance was eerie—flawless, even. And that only made the scene more grotesque.

My mother clapped her hands with delight, eyes shining with pride.

"Our Mary is amazing! She can mimic anyone! Even the voice—it's exactly like hers!"

My father nodded in agreement.

"That tone, that attitude—it’s spot on! Like Mrs. Jacobson herself is standing here!"

They were bursting with pride and ambition, completely intoxicated by their twisted fantasy.

But to me, they looked utterly insane.

Did they really believe this would work? That Wallace—a man known for his obsession with his wife—wouldn’t notice something was off? He knew her every expression, every inflection, every breath. My sister's cheap imitation wouldn't fool him for a second.

And yet, they continued rehearsing their grand deception.

Mary turned to them and instructed calmly, like a director briefing her actors:

"Later, call the bounty hotline. Say you found me unconscious on the roadside and brought me home out of kindness. When the time comes, I’ll thank you personally, and Wallace’s ten million will be in your hands."

My mother’s grin stretched ear to ear.

"Don’t worry, we’ll act our hearts out."

She turned to Mary with pride swelling in her voice.

"My brilliant daughter, one move and you’ve made us millionaires!"

Mary arrogantly lifted her chin.

"From now on, call me Mrs. Jacobson."

Without hesitation, my mother bowed slightly, as if greeting royalty.

"Yes, Mrs. Jacobson. Our future depends on you."

Even my father, usually reserved, was practically trembling with excitement. He wiped his hands on his pants before dialing the number on the reward poster. With a composed voice, he gave them our address, just as rehearsed.

When he hung up, the house burst into excitement. My parents began fantasizing about mansions, cars, and lavish dinners.

I watched them, my face cold.

They had no idea the hell they were summoning.

In the eyes of someone like Wallace, they were nothing but ants trying to impersonate a god. Once he uncovered the truth—and he would—their fates would be far worse than they imagined.

I had already died once because of them. I would not let them drag me down again.

While their backs were turned, I quietly packed my things. My only goal: get out before the storm broke.

Just as I reached for the door handle, my father stepped in front of me.

"Where do you think you’re going?"

I forced a steady voice.

"The hospital sent me on a business trip. I have a flight to catch."

Mary’s gaze locked onto me, cold and sharp. She sneered.

"Sister, you’re not thinking of betraying me, are you?"

Before I could answer, my mother lunged forward and gripped my arm, her nails digging into my skin.

"You ungrateful wretch!" she hissed. "If you dare say a word, I’ll kill you myself!"

She raised her hand to strike me.

But before it fell—a knock at the door.

Everything stopped.

The room fell into dead silence, the air thick with fear.

Mary instantly dropped her mask of arrogance and assumed a weak, innocent expression.

My mother forced a gentle, welcoming smile, while my father straightened up and tried to look harmless.

He opened the door slowly.

There, standing tall and imposing in the doorway, was Wallace.

He was dressed in a tailored black suit, his face expressionless. Behind him stood a row of bodyguards like shadows, ready to strike.

His eyes scanned the room, cold and razor-sharp.

Then his gaze landed on Mary.

And it didn’t move.

Mary’s eyes reddened instantly, and she called out in a trembling voice,

“Wallace…”

But Wallace didn’t move. He didn’t speak. His eyes, cold and unreadable, remained fixed on her.

Sensing the silence, my father quickly stepped forward, hands rubbing together nervously as he forced a smile.

“Mr. Jacobson, when we found your wife, she was unconscious by the roadside. We were worried something might happen to her, so we brought her home.”

He chuckled awkwardly.

“Luckily, we saw the news—or we wouldn’t have realized she was Mrs. Jacobson.”

My mother chimed in eagerly, her smile stiff.

“Yes, it was pure luck we crossed paths. If not, who knows what terrible things might’ve happened to her out there alone.”

Wallace’s gaze didn’t waver from Mary. His eyes narrowed, scanning every inch of her face like a hawk dissecting prey.

Then, slowly, he turned to my parents and asked in a low, cold voice,

“You’re sure… this is my wife?”

His expression was unreadable. But the chill in his tone sent a tremor down my spine.

Still blind to the danger, my parents laughed nervously, mistaking his quietness for confusion.

“Of course!” my father said quickly.

“Yes, just look at her temperament and features,” my mother added. “Even when she was unconscious, she kept murmuring your name. Isn’t that right?”

There was a long pause.

Then Wallace raised his hand.

Without a word, a pair of bodyguards stepped forward, wheeling in a stretcher covered with a white sheet.

The room fell into dead silence.

With a flick of his wrist, Wallace pulled back the cloth.

Gasps filled the air.

Lying on the stretcher was a woman’s lifeless body—bloodied, bruised, and clearly tortured beyond recognition. But despite the horror of it, I recognized her instantly.

Veronica. Mrs. Jacobson.

Even in death, her features held a tragic elegance.

Mary staggered back, her face drained of all color.

Then Wallace finally spoke, his voice low but deafening.

“If she is my wife…” he said, his eyes locked on Mary, “…then who is this?”