The Life I Took Back

The Life I Took Back My name is Chloe Sinclair. At twenty-four, I attended my own funeral. They held a funeral for me, erected a gravestone, and completely erased me from this world. Meanwhile, dressed in mourning attire, I stood before my own grave, listening as my father, Arthur Sinclair, and my mother, Evelyn Sinclair, said they had "nothing to say." Later, I lived again. Rising from the ashes of another corpse, shining in the ripples of the Seine, and in the fleeting instant a paintbrush pressed against the thin calluses on my palm once more. It took me over twenty years to realize one simple truth: in this world, some are born to be the light, while others are born to be the shadow. Yet, light can grow from shadows too. If you have ever had your name erased, your life stolen, and yourself reduced to someone else's stand-in, please remember— Living on is the best revenge. Chloe's POV Fire was everywhere. Thick smoke billowed out from behind the easel, the scorching heat searing my skin with intense pain. Covering my nose and mouth, I dashed toward the door, only to find it blocked by a collapsed, burning shelf. I reached for my phone to call for help, but flames consumed the room, blinding me to everything. "Serena!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. "Serena, are you there?" The only response was the sharp crackle of burning wood. Smoke flooded my lungs. I doubled over, coughing violently, dark spots dancing across my vision. Right before my consciousness sank into the void, a sharp, violent pain struck the back of my head. "Serena! Serena!" I bolted upright in bed, cold sweat soaking my hospital gown. A stark white ceiling. The sharp stench of disinfectant. A hospital. Before I could make sense of what was happening, a bundle of black clothes was tossed onto my bed. "Now that you're awake, put them on." My entire body froze. The voice was ice-cold, but I recognized it instantly. It was Julian Vance. "Julian?" Julian stood beside the hospital bed, dressed in a sharp suit, his profile aloof, his face devoid of emotion. My heartbeat fluttered into chaos. Julian was my sister Serena's fiancé, and the man I had kept hidden in the depths of my heart since childhood. I had buried these feelings for over a decade, never daring to breathe a word to anyone. The Vance and Sinclair families had been close for generations, making this union a natural match. The entire city was waiting for their wedding. Meanwhile, my reputation was notoriously tarnished—a slacker, a rebel who smoked, drank, and frequented clubs. Julian undoubtedly saw me the same way. Throughout their years of engagement, he had never stayed alone in a room with me, nor had he ever spoken more than a few complete sentences to me. Now, with just the two of us in the room, I didn't even know where to place my hands. "You have five minutes to change." Julian spoke. "Change?" I pushed myself up, a dull ache throbbing at the back of my head. "Julian, why am I in a hospital? Where's Serena?" Julian didn't answer. His gaze grew colder as he looked down at me. "Four minutes left." I had no choice but to pick up the clothes on the bed. The moment I shook them open, the blood in my veins ran cold. All black, solemn in design. It was mourning attire. "Whose funeral is this for?" My thumb was still stained blue beside the nail. Before the fire, I had spent three nights painting a sky for Serena's exhibition. She had chosen the title, approved the frame, and told the gallery it was her most personal work. I had mixed every color. For years, I had called that helping my sister. Yesterday, I had tried to tell her I was tired. Even now, I could remember the hurt on her face more clearly than the words I used. Now Julian was handing me clothes for a funeral. Julian finally looked me in the eye. "Chloe Sinclair's." I froze on the spot. My funeral? I was alive and well, sitting right here on this hospital bed. Just as I opened my mouth to speak, my phone vibrated. A news alert popped up on the screen. [Breaking News: A fire broke out last night at the private studio of renowned artist Serena Sinclair. Both Sinclair daughters were trapped inside. After extensive rescue efforts, the elder daughter, Serena, survived, while the younger daughter, Chloe Sinclair, tragically lost her life. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair are devastated by grief and will hold a funeral for their beloved daughter today.] I stared at the screen, my hands trembling so violently I could barely hold the phone. "Julian, I'm alive. What... what is going on?" "Chloe Sinclair is dead. She died in the fire." Julian looked down at me, like a judge delivering a sentence. "From this day forward, only Serena Sinclair exists in this world." A sharp buzz rang in my head, and suddenly, the meaning of his words clicked. "Serena... What about Serena?" Julian didn't answer. He averted his gaze. His silence was a confirmation. Tears welled up without warning. Words failed me completely. The one who died was Serena. Yesterday afternoon, Serena had come to the studio to talk to me. The conversation went poorly, ending on a bitter note. After Serena left, my mood was terrible, so I took a pill. As the medication kicked in, I fell asleep. When I opened my eyes again, I was lying here. So it wasn't a nightmare. It was real. The studio really caught fire, and my sister, Serena... had burned to death? It felt as if a massive boulder had slammed into my chest, the agony choking my sobs. "Arthur Sinclair and Evelyn Sinclair also believe that you were the one who died," Julian said, as though blind to my tears. "I don't intend to tell them the truth." I pressed my lips together tightly. I understood his logic. Serena and I were twins, yet our destinies were worlds apart. From the moment Serena was born, she smiled at everyone, melting our parents' hearts. I, on the other hand, wailed non-stop from the moment I hit the ground, throwing the entire household into chaos. Growing up, Serena was sweet-tongued, beautiful, and praised by all. Whenever relatives visited during the holidays, they always gathered around Serena, showering her with flattery. As for me, even when serving tea and water, no one spared me a second glance. The favoritism of Arthur Sinclair and Evelyn Sinclair was entirely natural. Over the years, I had always been disposable in the Sinclair family. Serena, however, was their pride and joy, their very lifeblood. Letting them believe that it was Chloe Sinclair who died would allow them to heal after a brief period of grief. If they knew it was Serena who had perished, they would never be able to bear the devastation. I could almost hear my mother asking me to be sensible. It had always been easier to imagine what they needed than to ask why I was the one who had to give it. And so, without even consulting me, he made the decision for everyone. "The funeral begins at ten," Julian said, turning toward the door. "The moment you step out of this room, you are Serena Sinclair." Clutching the mourning attire, I watched his retreating back. Tall, aloof, only a few steps away, yet separated from me by an impassable chasm. The door did not quite close. I watched the strip of his white cuff disappear through the gap, then kept watching after he was gone. When I was thirteen, I had spilled tea at a Sinclair family dinner. The stain spread across the tablecloth toward my father's sleeve. Everyone stopped talking. My mother's hand closed around my wrist beneath the table, hard enough to hurt, and I knew what she would say when the guests left. Julian had moved his cup over the spreading stain. "Mine," he said. "I knocked it." He was already speaking to someone else when I looked up. I never knew whether he remembered it afterward. For years, I did. It was not much on which to build a feeling. When I tried to explain him to Maxine, I always left that part out. It sounded smaller aloud than it had felt to the girl sitting at the table. Now he had put black clothes on my hospital bed and told me to wear my sister's name. I reached for the dress. My fingers caught in the tissue paper, making a loud, brittle sound in the quiet room. A nurse came in to remove the tray. She asked whether I had eaten. I shook my head, and she lifted the lid again as though hunger were a problem that could still be answered in an ordinary way. "A little, if you can." The porridge had cooled. I took one mouthful because she waited. It hurt going down. "Is there someone you'd like us to call?" I almost said my mother. The answer came before thought, as naturally as reaching for something when I fell. Then I remembered the news alert. My parents were arranging Chloe Sinclair's funeral. "They know," I said. The nurse adjusted the spoon on the tray. Perhaps she thought I meant they knew I was hurt. I let her think it. After she left, I opened the clear bag on the bedside table. My keys were there, an elastic hair tie, and the phone I had dropped in the studio. One corner of the case was blackened. Under it, a little square of paper had stuck to the plastic. It was a shopping list in Serena's handwriting. She had added the tea I liked beneath the paint supplies. I pressed the paper flat with my thumb. That was the part no one would understand if I tried to tell them about us. Serena could take an entire painting without asking and still remember which tea I drank when I worked late. I had spent years believing the second thing explained the first. Now I could not ask her what either meant. I opened my photographs and found one of her at the studio window. She was laughing at something outside the frame. I had taken the picture between coats of blue, and a corner of the unfinished canvas showed behind her shoulder. There were other pictures underneath it: the charcoal sketch, the first layer, the change she asked me to make. I touched the screen to enlarge her face. Then I saved the group to a separate folder, not because I knew what it might prove, but because the thought of losing the last ordinary afternoon with her made it hard to breathe. I could not stop the funeral. I could hardly make myself stand. The dress had a row of small buttons down the back. I reached for the first one, failed, and began again. Outside, a trolley rattled past the room. Someone laughed near the nurses' station. I put on the mourning clothes slowly, still waiting for someone to come back and tell me there had been a mistake.Chloe's POV When I stepped out after changing into the mourning attire, Julian was already waiting outside the room. Keeping my head down, I followed him into the car. The ride was utterly silent. The driver focused on the road, while Julian rested his eyes against the back seat, never glancing at me again. He didn't even bother to offer an explanation. And I didn't dare to ask. Julian had always been a man of absolute authority, icy and unyielding. In his presence, I had never dared to breathe too loudly. Sitting on the opposite side, I gripped my seatbelt tightly, fixing my gaze on the window. The streetscape rushed past in a blur. My mind was entirely consumed by memories of the fire in the studio and the horrific reality that Serena was gone. The car drove out of the city and entered Silent Vale Cemetery, an upscale burial ground nestled halfway up the mountain. Once the car came to a stop, Julian stepped out without looking back. I hurried to catch up. From a distance, I saw a dense crowd of mourners dressed in black. The person they had gathered to mourn was me. The sheer absurdity of the thought made me dizzy. Walking with my head bowed and my mind drifting, I bumped right into Julian's back. Stumbling back, I looked up directly into his cold face. "Remember," Julian said, looking down at me. "From now on, you are Serena Sinclair, my fiancée." The word "fiancée" struck my ears, sending my heart racing unpredictably. Before I could compose myself, he seized my arm and pulled me in front of him. Julian raised a hand, pointing not far away. "And Chloe Sinclair lives over there." I followed his gaze. A brand-new gravestone stood on the slope, the person in the black-and-white funerary portrait smiling serenely. The face in the portrait was mine. A violent jolt tore through my chest. I desperately wanted to ask Julian: Why force me to live under Serena's identity? Why couldn't I just be myself and let the truth be known? The questions rushed to the tip of my tongue, but though my mouth parted, I couldn't utter a single sound. Julian let go of me and walked straight toward the burial site. I wiped my face, holding back the tears and the chaotic storm in my mind, and followed him. White chrysanthemums were piled in front of the grave. Carved onto the headstone were the name Chloe Sinclair and her dates of birth and death, signed by Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair. Yet the person lying beneath was actually Serena. Standing before the monument, I still couldn't accept that Serena was dead. Only yesterday afternoon, she had stood right before me—flawlessly made up, her dress immaculate, captivating even in her anger. Today, she was reduced to a handful of ashes behind stone. Growing up, I had never experienced much familial warmth. The only affection I ever received came from Serena. When Arthur Sinclair and Evelyn Sinclair scolded me, Serena would speak up in my defense. Whenever there was delicious food, Serena always remembered to save a portion for me. My body trembled, my eyes burning as I forced my head up to swallow back the tears. I hated that fire. And I hated myself even more for sleeping so heavily that day, completely unaware that flames had erupted. If only I had woken up sooner, would Serena still be alive? The pastor stepped forward to conduct the service. "The departed has moved on. May everyone find comfort in this time of sorrow." The pastor closed his book. "Now, will the family and close friends please step forward to bid their final farewell." No one moved. The guests exchanged glances, whispering among themselves, but not a single person stepped forward. The pastor waited a moment, visibly uncomfortable. "Does anyone wish to say a few words to the departed?" Still, there was no response. Left with no choice, the pastor turned to Arthur Sinclair and Evelyn Sinclair in the front row. "Do the two of you have any final words for your daughter?" Evelyn Sinclair kept her eyes lowered, nudging her husband with her elbow. Arthur Sinclair cleared his throat twice and shook his head at the pastor. A silent declaration that they had nothing to say. My father had once driven three hours to hear Serena play a piano piece that lasted six minutes. He complained about the traffic afterward, but he kept the printed program in his desk. I knew because I had borrowed a stapler from that drawer years later and found it folded inside a plastic sleeve. I had searched the other papers, although there was no reason to. I knew what was there and what was not. Still, I had moved one envelope after another, hoping something I had forgotten might turn up. At the grave, I watched his hands. They were folded in front of him, the fingers loose. I wanted one of them to move toward the stone. Not a speech. Not the love I had spent years asking for in ways too small to name. Just an awkward touch, something he had not planned, something that would mean the name in front of him belonged to a child he remembered. He checked his watch. Beside the grave stood a wreath from Serena's gallery. Its card thanked her for bringing beauty into the world. The photograph attached to the ribbon showed the painting I had finished in our studio at four in the morning. I had tied a ribbon around that frame before the exhibition because Serena said the gold made the blue look warmer. I remembered the adhesive clinging to my fingers. The picture on the wreath was bright enough to recognize from several feet away. The name on the stone beneath it seemed harder to understand. A chill swept through me, sinking straight into my bones. I looked at the surrounding guests, then at Arthur Sinclair and Evelyn Sinclair. At their own flesh-and-blood daughter's funeral, they weren't even willing to offer a single word of farewell. My chest felt as though it had been sliced open with a blade, the agony making me shake. All the accumulated hurt and rage detonated inside me. I charged straight up to Arthur Sinclair and Evelyn Sinclair. "Why?" My eyes were bloodshot as I demanded, "Isn't the person lying in there your daughter? Why don't you have a single word for your final farewell?" Arthur Sinclair and Evelyn Sinclair froze in shock. The guests around us turned to stare in unison. Pointing at the gravestone, my tears fell uncontrollably. "Is Serena Sinclair the only daughter you care about? Does Chloe Sinclair not—" Before I could finish, a hand clamped brutally over my mouth from behind. Julian dragged me back by force. I struggled frantically, wanting to scream for him to let me go. I just wanted an explanation. Even if they lied to me, even if they just uttered a token phrase of grief, it would have been enough. All these years, I had tried so desperately to please Arthur Sinclair and Evelyn Sinclair. Whatever they told me to do, I agreed without hesitation. Was this cold cruelty all I received in return? "Be quiet," Julian warned, leaning against my ear. "Don't you dare slip up." I instantly froze. It felt like a hand had closed around my throat, draining every ounce of my strength to fight. To him, my pain was utterly worthless. I didn't even have the right to question my parents. Seeing that I had stopped struggling, Julian released his grip and draped an arm around my shoulder, turning toward the crowd. "Hearing the news of her sister's death was a severe shock to Serena. She is emotionally unstable right now. Please don't take it to heart." The moment those words were spoken, the doubt and suspicion vanished from the guests' faces, replaced by relief and sympathy. "Understandable. Losing her own twin sister... who could handle that?" "The two sisters truly shared a deep bond." I closed my eyes, tears tracking down my cheeks. It was also in this moment that another realization dawned on me. Everyone present believed that Chloe Sinclair was the one in the grave. Yet looking around, the crowd consisted solely of Sinclair family associates and Serena's friends from the art world. There wasn't a single friend of Chloe Sinclair. I didn't have many friends, but I had true ones. Maxine Cole and I had been inseparable for over a decade. She frequently visited our house during the holidays, and Arthur Sinclair and Evelyn Sinclair had met her countless times. They clearly knew her, yet neither of them had bothered to inform Maxine. In their eyes, even my funeral wasn't worth the slight effort of notifying my friends. The chill crawled from the soles of my feet straight to my chest. So, a person's death could be disposed of with such careless disregard. When the funeral ended, the guests began to disperse. Julian walked ahead, and I followed in silence. As we passed a cluster of bushes, snippets of conversation drifted from behind us. "Honestly, Miss Sinclair was remarkably good to that sister of hers. Even though the girl was a slacker who smoked, drank, and partied, Miss Sinclair always protected her." "Indeed. I heard that on the day of the fire, the younger Miss Sinclair went to the studio to cause trouble and completely ruined the paintings Miss Sinclair had prepared for the exhibition. That collection took over half a year to prepare. What a waste." "Ruining the art was bad enough, but starting a fire? It didn't matter if she died, but she nearly dragged Serena down with her. Good for nothing, a complete liability." "If she hadn't started trouble, would the studio have burned down? To put it bluntly, she brought it on herself." "Thank goodness Miss Sinclair survived. If anything had happened to her, the art world would have lost a true genius." "The one who suffered the most must be Mr. Vance. His fiancée was almost taken from him. I heard he kept vigil at the hospital all night." Listening to them, a bitter sting spread through my chest. The voices gradually faded into the distance. I stood frozen, the color drained from my face. I understood everything now. In the eyes of the world, Chloe Sinclair was the reckless troublemaker who caused the fire. I had ruined Serena's paintings, torched the studio, and nearly killed a brilliant artist. If the truth came out, everyone would learn that the prodigy with a boundless future was the one who died, while the troublemaker had survived. The Sinclair family could never accept such an outcome, and Julian Vance certainly couldn't. That was why he forced me to live on as Serena Sinclair. He wanted Chloe Sinclair to die under a cloud of disgrace, allowing Serena to continue living in glory. This, perhaps, was his punishment for me. A punishment for taking the life of the woman he loved. I clenched my fists, my chest so tight I could barely breathe. Yet I didn't even have the right to defend myself. The old explanation came easily: if I had agreed to keep painting, perhaps Serena would have gone home happy. Perhaps I would not have taken the pill. Perhaps someone would have noticed the smoke sooner. Each thought began with something I could have done differently. None reached the part I could not remember. Julian was walking ahead. I watched the back of his coat and tried to summon the courage to ask one question. Had she called for me? It was a terrible question. If he said yes, I would hear it every night. If he said no, I would have to imagine the silence. Before I could speak, my mother came down the path. She stopped beside me and straightened the collar of the black dress. For an instant, I leaned toward her. She used to do that before Serena's school performances: smooth a ribbon, brush a speck from a sleeve, turn a face toward the light. I had watched from doorways so often that my body recognized the gesture before I understood whose collar she thought she was fixing. "You mustn't upset yourself like that," she said. "There are people watching." Her fingers rested briefly beneath my chin. "I know," I whispered. She had not asked why I cried. She had not said my name. When she moved away, I could still feel the warmth of her hand. It made the next few steps harder, not easier. Near the gate, a ribbon had come loose from one of the wreaths. I caught it before it dragged through the mud. The gallery card was attached, the small photograph of the painting creased at one corner. I took a picture of it with my phone. I did not know why I wanted to keep another record of this day. Perhaps because everyone else seemed so ready for it to be over. Behind us, a worker began collecting the empty flower boxes. I looked back once. My photograph remained on the stone. The real person in it had to hurry to keep up with the man waiting at the end of the path.Chloe's POV Following behind Julian, we were heading toward the exit when a commotion broke out near the gates. "Why won't you let me in?" A girl dressed in a black hoodie was blocked outside the wrought-iron gate by security, stomping her feet in frustration. The moment she spotted me walking out, she yelled toward me. "Serena! Barring me from the cemetery and keeping me from seeing Chloe one last time—you've gone too far!" I froze in my tracks. It was Maxine Cole, my best friend. Warm, outgoing, and outspoken, she had carried herself like a boy ever since we were kids. I never expected to run into her here. Just moments ago at the funeral, my heart had chilled at the thought that Arthur Sinclair and Evelyn Sinclair hadn't notified any of my friends. It turned out Maxine had found out on her own and rushed over, only to be barred at the entrance. My nose stung, and the words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop myself. "Minnie..." "Shut up! You don't get to call me that!" Maxine glared at me through the iron gate, her eyes rimmed with red. "Serena Sinclair! What goes around comes around. You'll get what's coming to you sooner or later!" My heart trembled. I rushed forward, desperate to explain. "I—" Julian had turned back without my noticing, coming to a stop beside me. He had clearly heard her curse; frost gathered in the depths of his eyes. "Who are you?" Maxine lifted her chin, completely fearless. "I'm Chloe's best friend!" "Chloe Sinclair's friend?" Julian scoffed coldly. "Birds of a feather. Neither of you is any good." The color drained from my face. I could bear his cold indifference toward me. I could endure him blaming me for Serena's death. But Maxine was innocent. "Julian!" Gritting my teeth, I called him by his name for the very first time. "Why do you have to talk about Maxine like that?" Maxine didn't appreciate my defense at all. She spat at me through the bars of the gate. "Serena Sinclair, stop being so hypocritical! Do you really think speaking up for me makes up for what you did?" Tears spilled down her cheeks as she glared at me with pure hatred. "If you didn't have Chloe's face, I would've clawed it to shreds already!" I wanted to say something, yet I couldn't explain a single thing. Maxine had never liked Serena in the past. More than once, she had warned me, "Serena isn't as nice as she seems. Stop letting her use you." I had never believed her, always rushing to Serena's defense. The two of us had argued about it several times until our faces flushed red. Now, with one twin dead and the other alive, combined with everything that had happened, Maxine naturally assumed Serena was the one who had killed Chloe. "Maxine, stop. Please," I pleaded under my breath. I was terrified of the man standing beside me. If Maxine kept causing a scene and genuinely provoked Julian, she would be the only one to suffer. Julian fixed his gaze on the girl beyond the iron gate, speaking without a trace of emotion. "What's your name?" The question was asked calmly, but it sent my heart pounding frantically against my ribs. He was planning to settle scores later. With the Vance family's power, crushing someone like Maxine would be easier than squashing an ant. "Minnie, it's over now. Please don't say any more..." Without thinking, I pleaded with my friend while frantically grabbing Julian's arm. "Julian, let's go." Julian looked down at my hand resting on his arm. My palms were sweating as I forced myself to push him gently toward the car. "The funeral just ended. I'm exhausted, and I just want to go back and rest." Julian cast me an unreadable glance, but he didn't pursue the matter further and got into the car. I breathed a sigh of relief and climbed in after him, not daring to look back at the gate even once. I was afraid that one more glance would make me burst into tears on the spot. I didn't notice Maxine watching the car pull away, looking as though she had seen a ghost. That woman had just called her Minnie. Minnie was her pet name. Her friends usually called her Maxine. Only Chloe would blurt out "Minnie" whenever she panicked. She had complained countless times that "Minnie" sounded way too soft and lacked any edge. Chloe had stubbornly refused to change it, saying it was meant to balance her sharp personality. Over time, it had become their private little secret—something no outsider could possibly know. Maxine blinked, certain she hadn't misheard. But the person who used to call her Minnie was supposed to be lying in this cemetery forever. Staring at the receding taillights, her heart beat faster and faster. Something wasn't right. Something was terribly wrong about all of this. The car drove back into the city, finally pulling up in front of a luxury residential complex. Hidden Creek, one of Los Angeles's premier luxury addresses. One residence per floor, home exclusively to the wealthy and powerful. Julian led me upstairs and pushed the door open. "From now on, this is where you live." The apartment was bright and spacious, tastefully decorated, every detail speaking to its owner's exquisite taste. Standing in the entryway, my feet felt rooted to the floor; I couldn't bring myself to step inside. "Can I... not live here?" I asked hesitantly. "It feels too unfamiliar to me." Julian glanced at me. "This property is under Serena's name. When she was busy with work, Serena stayed here." He walked in a couple of steps, his tone flat. "I've already had her personal belongings packed away. Daily necessities, clothes, and jewelry will be delivered shortly." "There's no need." I waved my hands hurriedly. "I have clothes. All my clothes are still—" Before I could finish, a sharp, icy gaze locked onto me. Julian turned around, his face grim. "Chloe Sinclair, you've forgotten again." "From now on, you are Serena Sinclair. Serena has impeccable taste in fashion. Put away those clothes of yours." I clutched the hem of my shirt. "To the outside world, you are Serena." Julian continued, "Your every movement, every word, and every deed cannot tarnish Serena's reputation—including what you wear." He took a step closer, looking down at me. "Serena is my fiancée. You may be wearing her identity now, but we both know full well you're just an imposter." "Don't covet things that don't belong to you." "Do you understand?" Lowering my head, I nodded weakly. "I understand." Julian said nothing more, turning on his heel and leaving. The door shut, and his footsteps faded away. Unable to hold myself up any longer, I collapsed onto the sofa. I had never dared to covet anything to begin with. Why did he feel the need to remind me? Growing up, good things never came my way. I was already used to it. Even my feelings for him were something I only dared to bury in my heart, keeping them hidden until they rotted away. I looked around the room. Her things had been cleared out, but Serena's traces could never be erased. Nail holes dotted the walls where paintings once hung, a faint trace of perfume lingered in the air, and even the indents on the sofa bore the imprint of its owner's habits. Living here felt like living inside Serena's shadow. I slowly stood up and walked over to the full-length mirror in the entryway. The person in the reflection was pale, yet her features were identical to Serena's. I raised a hand, tracing the face through the cold glass. "Serena Sinclair," I said hoarsely. "How I wish we could turn back time." "If I could do it over, I would agree to whatever you said that day. I wouldn't make you angry." "If you were here," I whispered, "you would know what to say." The room gave me nothing back. I stayed at the mirror until my feet hurt. Then I went into the kitchen because standing in one place had become unbearable. There were two cups beside the coffee machine. One had a lipstick mark near the handle. The other was clean, turned upside down on a folded towel. I could picture Serena washing one and leaving the other for Julian. I had never watched them have breakfast here. My mind supplied it anyway. In a drawer, I found takeaway menus, an invitation, and an envelope from the canvas supplier. The address was familiar. I used to wait at the studio door for deliveries because Serena disliked having paint dust tracked across the floor. The receipt listed the wrong size canvas. I remembered fixing that mistake: a long evening on the floor, stretching the linen again while she sat on the windowsill and told me about an interview. She had brought me tea. She had also asked me to finish before morning. I sat down with the receipt in my lap. When we were little, Serena used to sneak candy into my hand after our parents sent me out of the dining room. I always remembered the candy first. Maxine remembered the doorway. "Why did they send you out?" she asked once. I had got angry with her for spoiling the part of the story I liked. Now I remembered both parts and could not fit them together. My phone was on the counter. I opened Maxine's contact and wrote her nickname. Minnie. I stared at the word until the screen dimmed. In our second year at college, I had come back to the dormitory at two in the morning with paint on my sleeves and a headache so bad I could not bear the ceiling light. Maxine had covered the lamp with a towel, pushed a bowl of noodles into my hands, and asked whether Serena knew I had class at eight. I told her not to start. She did not. She sat on the floor and untangled my charging cable while I ate. I wanted to tell that person I was alive. I wanted her to say my name as though nothing about it needed explaining. But the memory of her face at the cemetery returned: grief sharpening into rage, Julian asking who she was, the way he waited for an answer he could use later. I deleted the nickname. Then I typed it again. At last, I set the phone down without sending anything. It was not a sensible plan. I had no plan. I was frightened of bringing her to this apartment and more frightened that, if I called, she might answer with the same hatred I had heard at the gate. The invitation lay beneath the receipt. Serena's name was printed in gold. The front showed the painting from the funeral wreath. I ran my thumb over the raised letters. There had been another figure in an earlier version, before Serena asked me to change it. I could see the outline clearly even though I had not looked at the study for weeks. For the first time since the hospital, I wanted a pencil. I found none in the drawer. I put the receipt and invitation inside an empty notebook and left it on the table. Then I made one cup of tea. When I carried it into the sitting room, I found myself listening for another set of footsteps. For twenty-four years, I had wanted somewhere quiet where no one could order me out. I had never imagined the quiet would feel like this.Chloe's POV Ever since the funeral, I had been staying at Hidden Creek. The official story was that following the death of her twin sister, Serena Sinclair was so consumed by grief that she had to put all work commitments on hold and take an extended leave to recover. There was no need to attend exhibitions anymore, and gallery collaborations were paused. Interviews were declined, and even social media updates were halted. The public expressed endless sympathy, praising Serena for her deep sisterly devotion, mourning so intensely for her sibling. Only I knew this was merely Julian's arrangement. The first morning, I made too much tea. The second, I stood at the cupboard counting cups before I remembered there was no one to offer one to. A courier came with clothes on the third day. He called me Miss Sinclair, and I answered too quickly. He held out a delivery slip with Serena's name already printed on it. I paused with the pen in my hand. "Just there," he said, pointing. "Anywhere on the line." I wrote a small mark that might have been either of our initials. He did not look at it before taking the clipboard away. After the lift had gone, I sat at the table with a pencil from the parcel. I wrote Chloe Sinclair on a scrap of paper, then turned it over when the doorbell rang again. This time it was groceries. By the end of the week, I had learned to wait until the second ring before standing. It gave me a few seconds in which I could be myself without anyone needing an answer. Some afternoons, I opened the notebook where I had put the studio receipt. I tried to draw the lost figure from the painting. The hand came out wrong. The face looked too much like Serena's. I put the pencil down. For years, I had been able to work through exhaustion, criticism, and every change my sister wanted. Now no one was asking for anything, and I could barely finish a line. Once, my mother called. The screen made my heart leap before I read the message she sent after I failed to answer. [The gallery may contact you. Don't agree to an interview until Julian says it's all right. You need your rest.] I read the last sentence several times. I wanted it to be the important one. I put the phone beside the cup I had made for no one and went back to the window. He was afraid that, carrying Serena's name, I would make a misstep in public and ruin her reputation. Locking me away was the safest option. And I was more than happy to stay indoors. After all, I could never pull off Serena's dazzling confidence or universally adored charm; the moment I opened my mouth, I'd probably give myself away. The days drifted by. Aside from a few couriers delivering supplies, Julian never showed up. In the blink of an eye, over a month had passed. I had almost started to think he had completely forgotten about this imposter. One night, I had finally managed to fall asleep. I had always suffered from insomnia, but after Serena's accident, it had gotten even worse. I often lay awake all night, easily startled by the slightest noise. Suddenly, rustling sounds came from outside the door. Any drowsiness vanished instantly. I sat up from beneath the blankets, every nerve in my body pulled taut. I was the only person living in this apartment. Security was airtight. Who could possibly be entering in the dead of night? The sounds drew closer, reaching the living room. Staring intently at the bedroom door, my breath came faster and faster. In the next instant, a wave of terror washed over me as I remembered something. I hadn't locked the bedroom door! Gritting my teeth, I kicked off the covers and sprinted barefoot toward the door. The footsteps outside were approaching just as fast. Just as my hand touched the handle, before I could turn it— "Click." The doorknob twisted from the outside. My scalp prickled with dread as the door was shoved inward with tremendous force. A scream escaped my lips. "Shh." A familiar, deep voice floated down from above. I snapped my head up. The hallway sensor light was on, illuminating his face. It was Julian. His tie was loosened, his shirt wrinkled, and a heavy stench of alcohol washed over me. My racing heart sank with relief, only to seize up in panic once more. Why had he come here in the middle of the night, and why was he so drunk? "You've been drinking?" Gathering my wits, I asked softly. "I'll go get you some water." I stepped sideways to skirt past him. As I brushed past, a hand clamped around my wrist, violently yanking me back. "Serena..." I stumbled into a scorching embrace. My whole body went rigid. "Julian, you have the wrong person!" I shoved against his chest, but his frame didn't budge. Instead, his iron-like arms tightened around me. "Serena..." He called again, resting his chin on my crown and rubbing lightly. His voice was soft and slow, dripping with drunken tenderness. I froze. In all my twenty-four years, I had never seen Julian like this. In my memory, he was always cold and aloof, a man of few words who radiated an aura warning everyone to keep their distance. People said the heir of the Vance family was unfeeling and detached. It turned out that was all a lie. He, too, could say someone's name with such gentleness. It was just that the name belonged to Serena Sinclair. I pressed my lips together, a deep, pervasive ache spreading through my chest. I envied Serena. Outsiders only ever saw Julian's pride and coldness. Such soft-spoken tenderness was reserved solely for Serena. In the dark, a thought surfaced without warning: "What if I could also..." Jolted with horror, I ruthlessly crushed the thought. What was I doing? After staying in my place for so many years, was I really growing greedy now? "Chloe Sinclair, that doesn't belong to you. Don't covet it." "Don't betray Serena." I was already useless enough. If I became so greedy that I tried to steal Serena's fiancé, I would despise myself. I warned myself repeatedly, suppressing those forbidden impulses with all my might. Serena was radiant and beloved by everyone, the center of attention wherever she went. I was awkward with words, unloved, lingering in the shadows for twenty-four years. How could I ever be worthy of Julian? I wasn't worthy. "Stop fooling yourself." While my mind was reeling, a sudden heat pressed against my lips. Julian was kissing me. The sharp sting of liquor flooded my senses, his scorching heat searing into my lips with terrifying realism. This wasn't a dream. My mind went completely blank; I even forgot to push him away. "Serena..." His lips brushed against mine, his voice husky from alcohol. "You taste... so sweet today." A chill ran down my entire body. He thought I was Serena. He was drunk, mistaking me for someone else. He believed the woman he held and kissed was his beloved fiancée. "I'm Chloe," I said again, pressing a hand between us. "Listen to me." He lowered his head, and I could not tell whether he had heard. The name I had carried all my life suddenly felt like the only thing I could reach. I said it again, more quietly this time, close enough that he could not mistake the sound. For a moment, his grip loosened. Then he called me Serena. I had imagined being held by him when I was younger. In those private, foolish dreams, the simplest part had never needed imagining. He knew who I was.Chloe's POV "You've been drinking," I said. "You should go home." I had put both hands against his chest. He was warm through the wrinkled shirt, unsteady in a way I had never seen. For an instant, I wanted to mistake that unsteadiness for needing me. Then I heard the wrong name again. His hand closed around my wrist. I stopped speaking, not because he had answered me, but because I was suddenly afraid of what he would do if I insisted. I had imagined loving this man for so long that fear felt like a betrayal of the girl I had been. The girl remembered a compliment at a dinner, a door held open, a kind word offered without thought. The woman standing in Serena's apartment could feel his fingers tightening. They were not the same experience. Remembering one did not change the other. "Please go home," I said again. He called me Serena again. I said no. I said my name. Neither brought him back to himself in time. Later, when the room was quiet, I lay awake with my eyes on the pale strip of light beneath the curtains. I could not arrange the night into something tender simply because I had once wanted him to love me. Wanting him in another life did not make this one my choice. When he fell asleep, I got up, dressed, and went into the bathroom. I shut the door and sat on the floor until my shaking eased enough to hold my phone. I tried to type a message, but I could not decide whom to send it to. At last, I opened an empty note and wrote two sentences: I told him my name. I asked him to leave. I read them and put the phone down. I wasn't sure what writing them could change. For now, I wanted to keep them somewhere outside the argument in my own head. I found a blanket in the cupboard and took it to the sofa. The bedroom was at the other end of the apartment. I stayed where I could see the front door and left the hallway light on. At dawn, I opened the curtains. Delivery vans turned into the street below. Someone across the courtyard watered a row of plants. I made toast because I knew how to do it without thinking, and because my hands needed something to do. I put water on the table. Then I looked at my phone again. There was no new message on the screen. I opened the one from my mother and read the word rest until it stopped looking familiar. I could have called her. I knew every pause she would make before she asked what I had done to upset him. Even knowing that, I wanted to hear her voice. Instead, I opened the draft to Maxine. Minnie. This time I added: I don't know what to do. I did not send it. I put the phone beside the toast, faceup, as though the answer might arrive by itself. Julian emerged while the toast was still warm. He paused when he saw the blanket on the sofa. His gaze moved to me, then to the phone in my hand. "About last night," he said. I waited. He began buttoning his cuffs. "I will take responsibility." The phrase sounded prepared, something he had chosen before coming into the room. There was no question attached to it. "What do you mean?" "Once Serena's one-year mourning period is over, I will marry you." For a few seconds, all I could hear was the kettle cooling on the counter. As a child, I had imagined him saying those words and had been ashamed of how much I wanted them. I had never imagined standing in a borrowed kitchen, wrapped in a cardigan because I could not get warm, wishing he would ask whether I was hurt. "Marriage isn't an answer to what happened," I said. He looked at me properly then. "Chloe—" "You didn't ask me. Last night, or now." His hand stopped at the final button. Something crossed his face, quickly hidden. "You need rest. We can discuss this later." "I need you to knock before you come in." He looked toward the bedroom, as though the apartment might supply a different interpretation of the night. "This is Serena's property." "I'm the person living here." The silence between us lengthened. I did not become brave inside it. My pulse hammered, and I was already calculating whether he would take the phone, whether the door would open, whether I had made things worse. But I did not take back the sentence. At last, he picked up his coat. "Eat something," he said. He left without touching the toast. I waited for the lift, then for the car below. Only when it had disappeared did I let myself sit. His promise of marriage had solved something in his mind. It had solved nothing in mine. It did not return my name, tell me who had started the studio fire, or explain why my parents had watched a coffin lowered beneath my photograph without asking a single question. I opened the note again and added his words from this morning. Then I put it away. The cold toast lay on its plate. I took one bite and could not finish it. On the sofa, the blanket still held the shape of the place where I had sat all night. I folded it twice, unfolded it, and folded it again. I wanted some ordinary action to tell my hands that the morning had started. When I finally sat down, I thought about the tea he had claimed to spill at that dinner years ago. For so long, that memory had made him someone I trusted. I had returned to it whenever he overlooked me, placing the cup between us in my imagination and insisting that I knew another side of him. I did not know what to do with it now. The memory had happened. So had last night. I could not erase either, and one did not change the other. I opened the note I had made in the bathroom. At the bottom, I wrote that he had offered marriage and that I had asked him to knock. The second thing looked so small on the screen. A door, a few seconds of warning. I had imagined a future with him once; this morning, I was trying to ask for those few seconds. Later, a cleaner came. I moved the note out of sight and watched her strip the bed. She asked whether I wanted the blue cover or the white one. "Whichever is clean," I said. "Both are." I looked at the folded cloths in her hands. She waited without seeming impatient. "Blue." She nodded and went back into the bedroom. It was the first question anyone had asked me that morning without already having decided the answer. I cried after she left, then washed my face before she returned for the bucket. That evening, I put the blue cover on the bed myself. I did not sleep in it yet. I took the blanket back to the sofa, left a light on, and kept the phone where I could reach it.Chloe's POV Half a month had passed since Julian left. During that time, he never returned to Hidden Creek, nor did he call even once. I had a vague feeling he was avoiding me. At first, I counted the days because I was relieved. Then I caught myself checking the lift whenever it stopped on my floor. The contradiction made me angry. I wanted distance from him. I also wanted him to come back as the person I had once believed in and tell me he understood what happened. Every time the doors opened for someone else, I felt both foolish and safe. There was no tidy order in which the feelings arrived. One morning, I went through the photographs on my phone again. I stopped at the unfinished canvas, the one with the small woman near the bottom edge. I remembered how carefully I had drawn her hand around the handle of a suitcase. Serena said she looked unhappy. I said she looked ready to leave. "Then give her a nicer face," my sister had replied, and I had laughed because I thought she was teasing. The woman was covered by a tree in the finished work. I found the gallery card inside the notebook. Its website listed a woman who handled questions about the history of paintings: Mara Ellis. I read the page, closed it, and opened it again after lunch. I was not ready to accuse my sister, especially the sister I believed I had lost. I did not know what I wanted back or whether there was anything left to recover. I wrote a smaller question. If an artist had helped make a painting, but it went on display under somebody else's name, was it possible to keep a record of the work they had done? I did not sign it. I attached one cropped image of the first sketch and said I still had other photographs. After sending it, I wanted to take it back. I thought about Serena asking why I had gone to a stranger. Then I thought about the woman with the suitcase and left the message where it was. Then again, maybe that was for the best. I had no idea how to face him either. Every time I remembered that night, my face burned furiously, and I wished the ground would swallow me whole. One afternoon, the doorbell rang out of the blue. I opened the door to find a sharp, professional-looking woman in a tailored suit standing outside. "Good afternoon, Miss Sinclair. I am Mr. Vance's secretary, Lynn." She dipped into a slight, respectful bow, her demeanor polished and attentive. "There is a charity auction tonight. Mr. Vance instructed me to deliver your gown and brought a styling team to prepare your full look." He wanted me at a charity auction? Before I could process the news, Lynn clapped her hands. A stream of people filed in, carrying cases of all shapes and sizes. I parted my lips, watching dumbfounded as they entered. Case after case was opened and neatly arranged. An overwhelming array of skincare and cosmetics dazzled my eyes. There was an entire box of lipsticks alone, and a whole rack of evening gowns was rolled in. Before I could react, gentle hands were already steering me inside by the shoulders. "These are internationally renowned stylists," Lynn introduced from the side, offering a practiced, professional smile. "Mr. Vance instructed that Miss Sinclair simply follow their lead." My steps faltered slightly. Though I wasn't as dazzling as Serena, I wasn't stupid. I understood the unspoken meaning behind her words. I had no right to an opinion; I only needed to sit there and let them manipulate me like a porcelain doll. Julian didn't trust my taste. He was terrified I would humiliate Serena Sinclair's name. I lowered my head, offering a bitter, self-deprecating smile where no one could see. If I were Serena... Would he ever treat the real Serena this way? Of course not. To the real Serena, he would have softly asked what color she preferred, what silhouette she fancied. I took a seat in front of the vanity. The stylists swarmed around me, their hands moving with practiced efficiency. Cleansing, skincare, makeup, hair. The face in the mirror clearly shared the same bone structure, yet under their skillful touch, it grew increasingly foreign. My brows were sculpted into crisp, commanding arches; a striking crimson was swept across my lips. Even the submissive timidity in my eyes was concealed beneath the dramatic shadow and liner. That was Serena Sinclair. Julian Vance's Serena. Finally, I slipped into the gown Lynn had brought. It was a moon-white satin evening dress, cut so flawlessly it seemed custom-tailored for my frame. On my feet were stilettos with heels so razor-thin and high I had never dared wear them in all my twenty-odd years. The stylists stepped back, a collective murmur of admiration escaping them. I stared quietly at my reflection in the mirror. Exquisite features, bold red lips, earthy eyeshadow shimmering with refined elegance. Noble. Graceful. Every man's dream goddess. This wasn't Chloe Sinclair. Chloe Sinclair didn't deserve to be this beautiful. "Miss Sinclair, please head downstairs," Lynn said, glancing at her watch. "Mr. Vance is already waiting for you below." Julian was here. My heart instantly skipped a beat. I turned to leave, but suddenly stopped. "Is something wrong?" Lynn looked at me, puzzled. "Just a moment." I walked back into the bedroom and pulled open the nightstand drawer. Tucked into the far corner was a bottle of perfume—Serena's signature scent. Serena had worn it for years, never once switching brands. When Julian had someone clear out all of Serena's belongings, they had probably overlooked this single bottle. I stared at it, hesitating for a long time. Finally, I reached out and picked it up. Pressing the nozzle, a fine mist settled over the side of my neck and wrists. As the familiar fragrance bloomed in the air, I closed my eyes. I knew that something was quietly sprouting deep within my heart. That something was hope. Before the night turned frightening, I had heard a softness in Julian's voice I once longed to hear. It was directed at Serena. Remembering it now made me ashamed of the old wish, but I did not mistake that wish for consent to what followed. And from it, a humble, pathetic wish had taken root. One day, I wanted Julian to smile at me just once. Just as he had smiled at Serena—brow relaxed, eyes melting with tender warmth. Even if the woman he thought he was smiling at was Serena Sinclair. I only wanted a single gentle smile from him. That was all. I told myself in my heart: Anything more doesn't belong to me, and I won't ask for it. I thought I had drawn a clear line. Just a smile. I wouldn't let my heart fall. Yet how could I forget? My heart had fallen for him all those years ago. I had simply snapped that crush with my own hands and buried it deep in the dirt. But things buried aren't necessarily dead. Clutching the perfume bottle, I stared into the mirror. For a moment, the perfume brought back a wish so old I could have mistaken it for instinct: if I looked enough like Serena, perhaps he would be gentle. I set the bottle down. The auction invitation on the table included Serena's gallery among its donors. I recognized the name now. Mara had answered that morning. She could not judge a painting from one cropped picture, she wrote. If I wanted to continue, she would need to understand what part of the work I had done. She asked permission to compare the image with the gallery's existing records. She would not contact the family without telling me first. I had not expected to be asked permission. For ten minutes, I did nothing with the message. Then I sent two more photographs: the charcoal figure and the first layer of blue. I kept the ones showing Serena's face to myself. I was frightened of what the comparison might mean. I was also tired of being unable to say that I had held a brush without feeling I was betraying someone. The notebook went into my bag beside a folded tissue. I had written only the date of the exhibition and a question about the old study. It was hardly the beginning of an investigation. Before leaving, I looked at the perfume bottle again. I had already used it. The scent would reach Julian before any explanation I could offer. I wanted to scrub it away, and I wanted him to recognize it and look at me gently. Both wishes embarrassed me. "Miss Sinclair?" Lynn called. I closed the bag. "Coming." In the lift, I watched the floor numbers change. There were still marks from my hairbrush on the skin behind my ear, and the shoes pinched my toes. I had spent the afternoon being made ready for a room full of people. I wished, absurdly, that I could arrive there with Maxine instead.Chloe's POV Downstairs, a black Maybach sat idling outside the entrance of the building. Taking a deep breath, I pulled open the car door and slid inside. Before I could even settle into the seat, a hand clamped brutally around my wrist. A piercing jolt of pain made me wince. "Who gave you permission to wear Serena's perfume?" Julian turned his head toward me, snarling each word, his eyes freezing cold. My heart plummeted straight to the bottom. He recognized it. It felt like my wrist was about to snap. The agony left me speechless, forced to endure it in silence. In the next breath, his fingers clamped around my jaw, violently forcing my face upward. "Chloe Sinclair, did everything I said go in one ear and out the other?" "Remember this: Serena is Serena, and you are nothing but an imposter. No matter how much you look like her, you will never be her." I had heard the word "imposter" before, but hearing it again still cut like a blade. "Let me ask you," Julian said, his eyes drilling into mine. "Why did Serena die in that fire? Don't you feel even a shred of guilt?" I shuddered violently. "If you didn't have a face identical to Serena's..." He leaned in closer, slowly tightening his grip on my jaw. "...do you really think you would still be breathing right now?" I was stunned. "What... do you mean?" I wondered if I had misheard him. Was he implying that Serena's death had been caused by me, Chloe Sinclair? Julian let out a cold sneer. "Chloe Sinclair is a good-for-nothing delinquent—smoking, drinking, clubbing. Who in all of Los Angeles doesn't know that?" "Then explain to me: why were you at Serena's art studio the night of the fire?" "You don't even know how to paint. What were you doing there?" "Serena was preparing for her exhibition, so busy she slept in the studio every single day, and nothing ever happened. The moment you showed up, the whole place went up in flames." With every word he uttered, the pressure of his grip intensified. "The fire department's report clearly states that besides Serena's fingerprints, yours were on the accelerant!" "Chloe Sinclair, what else do you have to say for yourself?" A tomb-like silence settled over the car. My fists clenched tightly, my shoulders trembling uncontrollably. Every single word carved into my heart like a dagger. Yes, I was a good-for-nothing who partied and clubbed. My reputation was completely in the gutter, and everyone in Los Angeles knew it. Back then, I thought none of it mattered. In the eyes of the world, I was a waste; in the eyes of Arthur Sinclair and Evelyn Sinclair, I was practically invisible. What did a good or bad reputation matter to me? As long as Arthur Sinclair, Evelyn Sinclair, and Serena were happy, it was the least I could do for them. Yet I never imagined this day would come. All my past missteps had been dragged into the light by Julian Vance, weaponized into undeniable proof of my guilt, leaving me utterly defenseless. Even I couldn't find a reason to refute him. I closed my eyes. Whatever was churning violently in my chest, I forced it down with raw will. Slowly unclenching my fists, I tilted my head up and met Julian's gaze. "I used those materials," I said. "I never told you I set a fire. Those are different things." The material had been mine. I had used it while painting, and its presence did not explain how the room caught fire. That night, my mood had been rock bottom. After taking my medication, everything became a blur. By the time I opened my eyes, I was already in the hospital. What happened in between, even I couldn't explain. I had not seen the complete report. I had heard Julian describe it, and he had already decided what every detail meant. Regardless, Serena was dead. Any excuse or explanation was too late now, and entirely pointless. Julian stared at me, his gaze dark and unreadable. The tension in his fingers eased, but he didn't pull away. Instead, his hand slid down to my throat. His palm rested against the slender, pale column of my neck, slowly tracing the skin. I froze, not daring to move a muscle. The silence inside the car was suffocating. That hand lingered at my neck, making no further move for what felt like an eternity. I half-expected his fingers to tighten in the next second and strangle the life out of me. I didn't pull away. If this was how I could atone, then let him choke me. "Chloe Sinclair," Julian finally spoke after a long time. "I truly want nothing more than to strangle you right here." With that, his hand fell away from my neck. He straightened his posture and signaled the driver to move, as if nothing had just occurred. I slumped against the seat, my face as pale as parchment. That hadn't been an idle threat. He had genuinely contemplated it. And as for why he had held back, I knew the reason all too well. I wasn't delusional enough to think he felt even an ounce of affection for me. He simply needed me. He needed me to carry Serena Sinclair's name and exist before the eyes of the world. He wanted his Serena to remain dazzling and alive in this mortal world. While the disgraced Chloe Sinclair belonged quietly buried beneath that cold grave. That was all there was to it. Silence reigned for the rest of the drive until the car pulled into the underground garage of the Mirage. The Mirage was Los Angeles's most exclusive private club; ordinary people couldn't even find the door, and anyone walking through its halls was either impossibly wealthy or wielded serious power. Tonight's charity auction was hosted here. When the car came to a stop, Julian got out first, walked around to my side, and offered his arm. In front of outsiders, we were a devoted engaged couple. The act had to be flawless. Hesitating for a moment, I hooked my hand through the crook of his arm, unaccustomed to the gesture. Through the suit fabric, I could feel the warmth of his arm. The very same arm that had pinned my throat just moments ago. Side by side, we walked toward the venue, looking like an enviable, picture-perfect match. Just before the entrance, Julian leaned close to my ear. "Remember, your every word and gesture represents Serena." His warm breath brushed against my ear, yet his words were frigid. I closed my eyes. "I am Serena Sinclair," I chanted silently over and over. "I am the dazzling, beloved Serena Sinclair." The grand doors swung open before us. A sea of glittering chandeliers, haute couture, and mingling scents of fine perfume rushed forward. Countless eyes turned our way. Balancing awkwardly on my unfamiliar stilettos, I straightened my spine and lifted my chin, doing everything I could to summon the aura that belonged to Serena Sinclair. I glanced subtly at the handsome side profile of the man beside me. The lighting cast clean shadows across his chiseled features—distinguished, aloof, entirely out of reach. At the threshold, I remembered another entrance, years earlier, when I had waited outside a school hall with a painting wrapped in newspaper. Serena was inside, winning a prize. My mother had asked me to bring the extra canvas because a display panel needed filling. I had arrived too late to hear the speech, but not too late to help take the work home. Julian had passed me by the doors. He looked at the parcel and asked whether it was heavy. I shook my head. It had been heavy for the entire walk from the bus stop. I did not know why I lied, except that being easy to have around seemed safer than asking someone to stop. He went inside. I stood there until the applause finished. Now his arm was beneath my hand and every face in the room turned toward us. I had finally crossed a threshold beside him, wearing the name of the person who had always been welcome first. It did not feel like arriving. An attendant offered the auction catalogue. I took it because it gave me something to hold. Julian glanced at the cover and said I would not need it. "I'd like to look," I said. He was already greeting a guest and did not answer. I opened the booklet at random, then found the final lot. The small reproduction showed a painting I knew better than any room in this building. Serena had called it Homecoming. That had not been my first title. My phone vibrated inside the bag. I turned slightly away from the guests and read Mara's reply. [We have an early installation photograph showing part of the study before the canvas was reframed. It may help us compare the versions, but I need to ask you something first.] Below it was the detail she had enlarged: a woman's hand, the handle of a suitcase, the faint line where I had painted a tree over her shoulder. [Why did you remove this figure?] I looked up at the painting in the catalogue. Then at Julian, smiling at someone who called me by my sister's name. For a month, people had asked me to rest, to be quiet, to behave as Serena would. No one had asked about a choice I had made while I was still Chloe. My fingers hovered over the screen. I remembered what I had called the painting before Serena changed it. Leaving. "Who are you writing to?" Julian asked beside me. [Paywall]