I woke up screaming.
It wasn't a loud scream. It was a strangled gasp that died in my throat as I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs. For a second, I didn't know where I was. The sheets were too soft. The air was too cold. The room was too big.
Then I saw the mirror.
The morning light streamed through the heavy velvet curtains, illuminating the red smear on the glass. HE KNOWS.
I slumped back against the pillows, the memory of the previous night crashing down on me. I wasn't in my tiny apartment in Queens. I was in the Thorne Manor. I was Elena Vance. And I was trapped.
I dragged myself out of bed. My legs felt heavy, like I was wading through water. I walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. The estate was breathtaking in the daylight. Endless green lawns, manicured hedges, and a large stone fountain that looked like it belonged in a museum. It was a paradise.
But to me, it looked like a prison yard.
I needed coffee. I needed aspirin. And I needed to talk to Silas.
I walked into the massive walk-in closet. It was larger than my entire kitchen back home. I ran my hands over the fabrics. Silk, cashmere, velvet. Everything was black, white, or deep red. Elena didn't do pastels. She dressed like a villain.
I chose a white pencil skirt and a silk blouse that cost more than my car. I pulled my hair back into a severe bun, just like the photo Silas had shown me. I applied the red lipstick, using it as war paint.
I looked in the mirror. Maya was gone. The ice queen was back.
"You can do this," I whispered to my reflection. "Just get through breakfast. Then call Silas."
I opened the bedroom door and stepped into the hallway. The house was silent. It was a heavy, oppressive silence that made my footsteps sound like thunder. I walked down the grand staircase, gripping the banister until my knuckles turned white.
I followed the smell of coffee.
It led me to a sunroom at the back of the house. It was a beautiful room, with glass walls looking out over the gardens.
Julian was there.
He sat at the head of a long glass table, reading a newspaper. A real, paper newspaper. He wore a crisp grey suit, his tie perfectly knotted. He looked like the picture of corporate power.
He didn't look up when I entered.
"You're late," he said, turning a page.
I glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. "It's eight o'clock."
"Breakfast is served at seven-thirty," Julian said. "You used to know that."
"I overslept," I said, walking to the chair at the opposite end of the table. It felt like I was sitting in a different zip code.
A maid I hadn't met yet bustled forward. She was young, with wide, frightened eyes. She poured coffee into my cup with a shaking hand. A drop splashed onto the saucer.
The maid froze. She looked at me, terrified, waiting for me to scream at her.
"I'm so sorry, Madam!" she squeaked. "I'll get a fresh one immediately!"
I looked at the drop of coffee. It was nothing. In my old life, I would have wiped it up with a napkin and smiled.
But I was Elena.
I looked at the maid. I let the silence stretch out, uncomfortable and cruel.
"Leave it," I said coldly. "Just go."
The maid bobbed a curtsy and practically ran out of the room.
I took a sip of the coffee. It was bitter.
"You're in a mood," Julian commented, finally lowering the paper. He looked at me down the length of the table. His eyes were clear and sharp, showing no sign of the alcohol he had smelled of last night. "Still upset about the graffiti on your mirror?"
"It wasn't graffiti," I said, setting the cup down. "It was a message."
"It was a cry for attention," Julian countered. He picked up his tablet, scrolling through emails. "I had Mrs. Graves clean it off this morning while you were asleep. I didn't want the maids to see it and start gossiping that the lady of the house has finally lost her mind."
I stiffened. Mrs. Graves had been in my room while I was sleeping? The thought made my skin crawl.
"You have a busy day ahead of you," Julian continued, ignoring my reaction. "The PR team is coming at ten. They need to prep you for the press conference."
"Press conference?" I choked on my coffee. "Silas didn't say anything about a press conference."
Julian looked up, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.
"Of course there is a press conference, darling. You've returned from the dead. The shareholders want to see that you are alive, well, and fully committed to the merger."
He stood up, buttoning his jacket.
"Do try to look less like a deer in headlights," he said. "It makes you look guilty."
He walked toward the door. As he passed my chair, he paused.
"And Elena?" he added softly. "If you try to sabotage this merger again... if you say one word out of line to the press... I will make sure you wish you had stayed missing."
He walked out, leaving me alone in the sunroom.
My hands were shaking. A press conference. Live TV. Reporters asking questions I didn't know the answers to.
I needed Silas. Now.
I pulled the burner phone from my pocket and dialed the only number saved in the contacts.
It rang once. Then a voice answered.
"What?" Silas snapped.
"We have a problem," I whispered, hunched over the table. "Julian knows about the lipstick message. And he just told me I have to do a press conference tomorrow. You said I just had to attend parties!"
"Calm down," Silas said. His voice was annoying calm. "The press conference is scripted. I'll email you the talking points."
"And the message?" I hissed. "Someone wrote 'He Knows' on my mirror, Silas! Was it you?"
There was a long pause on the other end of the line.
"No," Silas said slowly. "It wasn't me."
"Then who was it?"
"I don't know," Silas said. "But you better find out. Because if someone else in that house knows you're a fake, we are both dead."
At ten o'clock sharp, the library doors flew open.
The "PR Team" didn't look like publicists. They looked like sharks in Italian suits. There were three of them, led by a woman named Diane who had hair so blonde it looked white and eyes that blinked about once every minute.
"Mrs. Thorne," Diane said, not offering a hand to shake. She slapped a thick binder onto the mahogany table. "We have twenty-four hours to make you look like a victim and not a villain. Sit down."
I sat. The leather chair was enormous, swallowing me whole.
"The narrative is simple," Diane began, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. "You were overwhelmed. You needed space. You went to a private wellness retreat in the Swiss Alps. No kidnapping. No ransom. Just a mental health break."
"But Julian said..." I started.
"Julian is handling the board," Diane cut me off. "You are handling the public. The stock price dropped twelve percent when you vanished. We need it to rebound by Friday. That means you need to be perfect."
She stopped pacing and leaned over the table, bracing her hands on the leather binder.
"Let's drill. Rapid fire. Don't think, just answer."
My heart began to race. It felt less like a prep session and more like a police interrogation.
"Where did you meet Julian?" Diane barked.
"The Met Gala, 2019," I recited instantly. Silas had made me memorize the timeline.
"What is your favorite flower?"
"White orchids. Specifically the ones imported from Singapore."
"Good," Diane nodded. "Where did you go on your honeymoon?"
"We didn't have one," I said. "Julian had to close the deal on the Tokyo acquisition two days after the wedding."
"Correct," Diane said, though she looked bored. "Now, let's talk about the 'incident' last year. The press will ask about it. They always do."
I froze.