Chapter 1

Five years into our marriage, I believed I had the most perfect life imaginable.

My wife was gentle and devoted—and she wore the same face as my first love, the woman who died years ago.

I told myself it was a gift from the universe. Compensation for everything I had lost. Then, on our wedding anniversary, an anonymous package arrived at our door.

No bomb inside. Just a bloodstained ring, and a photograph of a woman burned beyond recognition.

On the back of the photo, someone had written words that turned my blood to ice:

"What kind of monster are you holding every night?"

On our fifth wedding anniversary, I cleared my entire schedule and came home early.

The dining table was set with seared steak, a decanted bottle of red wine, and a bouquet of white roses still beaded with water.

Aria was in the kitchen, wearing the white dress I loved most. Her figure was slender, her long hair pinned loosely with a wooden clip, a few soft strands falling against the pale curve of her neck.

I walked up behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist.

"Thank you for this," I murmured. "All of it."

She turned around. In the warm amber light, her face was breathtaking. Especially when she smiled—those two faint dimples at the corners of her mouth were an exact copy of Aurora's. The Aurora who had died in a fire five years ago.

Five years ago, my fiancée Aurora was killed in an accidental fire. I fell apart after losing her. There were moments I didn't want to go on. Then, six months later, I walked into an art exhibition and met Aria.

She told me she was an orphan. A freelance illustrator. And she looked so much like Aurora it stopped my breath.

I fell for her helplessly—or maybe I fell for that face. Five years of marriage, and she had been nothing but gentle and patient. She tolerated every one of my bad moods. She even learned to cook Aurora's favorite dishes, just for me.

"Lucien, what are you staring at? Go wash your hands." Aria tapped the tip of my nose with a teasing smile.

Then the doorbell rang.

"Who'd come at this hour?" She wiped her hands on her apron and started toward the door.

"I'll get it." I touched her shoulder and walked to the entryway.

No one was there. Just a black cardboard box sitting alone on the doormat. No return address. Only four printed words: For Lucien. Open personally.

I frowned, picked it up, and brought it inside.

"Who sent it?" Aria called from the kitchen, carrying a bowl of soup.

"No idea. Probably someone's idea of a joke."

I found a box cutter and sliced through the tape.

Inside, black raffia padding cushioned a single transparent zip-lock bag. Inside the bag was a diamond ring—slightly warped, as if it had been through a fire.

The moment I saw it, my mind went blank. The blood drained from my body.

That was the ring I had used to propose to Aurora. After her death, it was supposed to have been buried with her ashes. So why was it here?

My hands started shaking.

"Lucien? You look terrible." Aria stepped closer. "What's wrong?"

"Don't come over here." My voice came out sharp.

She froze, her eyes wide with confusion and hurt.

I ignored her. Because I had just noticed what was beneath the ring—a manila envelope.

I swallowed hard and tore it open. Several photographs slid out, along with a photocopied medical file.

The first photo showed a woman wrapped head to toe in bandages, lying in a hospital bed. The exposed skin was covered in ragged burn scars, dark and raised like deep welts running in every direction.

The second photo showed the same woman with some of the bandages removed. It was a completely unfamiliar face—a wide jawline, a flat nose, eyes hollow with despair.

The third photo showed her on an operating table. Her face was covered in surgical markers. Reconstructive procedures were already underway.

The medical file read:

Patient Name: Iris

Diagnosis: Severe full-body burns. Facial disfigurement.

Surgical Plan: Facial contouring, cartilage rhinoplasty, eyelid reconstruction… Reference template: Aurora (photo attached)

At the bottom of the file, written in red ink by hand:

"What kind of monster are you holding every night?"

I stared at the photos. Then I looked up at Aria, standing a few feet away, her face pale with panic.

The same eyes. The same dimples.

It had all been a lie.

Not a gift from the universe. Not a miracle reunion.

A face, built from scratch with a surgeon's blade.

I stood up and hurled the photos and the file directly at her.

Papers scattered across the floor like snow.

"Tell me what this is." My voice came out barely human. "Tell me right now."

Aria looked down at the photos. Every drop of color left her face. Her legs gave out beneath her and she crumpled to the floor, trembling violently.

"Lucien… just let me explain…"

"Explain?" I laughed, a cold and ugly sound. I stepped toward her, grabbed her jaw and forced her to look at me. "Explain how this face was carved out one cut at a time? Explain why you put on my dead fiancée's face and climbed into my bed?"

"Tell me who you are. Are you Aria? Or are you the one who burned—the one they called Iris?"