Chapter 2

She could barely breathe with my grip on her jaw.

Tears poured down the face that looked exactly like Aurora's and fell onto the back of my hand, scalding hot.

"Lucien, I love you." She choked on the words, clawing at my fingers. "I really do love you—"

"Don't make that expression with her face."

I shoved her away and turned aside, nausea rising in my throat.

Five years of sleeping beside her. Five years of her warmth, her laughter, her hands in mine. I had convinced myself I was holding a miracle—that I had somehow gotten Aurora back. Yet I never imagined that every inch of skin I kissed was a forgery, meticulously sculpted by a surgeon's scalpel.

"Get out." I pointed at the front door, one word at a time. "Leave my house. Before I call the police and have you arrested for fraud—disappear."

Iris sat on the floor and sobbed. She didn't argue. She didn't beg. She just stumbled to her feet, left without grabbing a coat or a bag, and pushed out into the dark.

The door shut behind her with a heavy thud.

I dropped onto the couch, surrounded by scattered photos and that charred ring, and pressed my hands over my face.

These past five years have been nothing short of an utterly absurd nightmare.

The next morning, I called Vincent.

Vincent had been a year above me in college. After graduation he'd opened a private investigation firm—he had connections on both sides of the law.

We met at a quiet tea house off the main road. I dropped the package on the table in front of him.

He lit a cigarette and went through the photos and the medical file, his expression tightening with each page.

"Jesus," he muttered, blowing out a long stream of smoke. "This reads like a thriller. A full face reconstruction? That takes serious money and serious pain. What was she after? Your money?"

I shook my head. "My accounts have always been separate. She lived on a small monthly allowance. She never bought designer bags, never bought jewelry."

That had always confused me.

If Iris was after money, she could have drained accounts and run. She didn't. She just stayed—a flawless, quiet, model wife—for five years.

"Not for the cash, then. Must be the man. " Vincent tapped his cigarette ash. "But something still doesn't add up. Even if she was obsessed with you, where does a nobody orphan get the cash for surgery like this? The procedures on this file—we're talking millions, minimum. Where did she get it?"

I looked up sharply. "That's exactly what I want to know. Vincent, dig into all of it. Find out who Iris really is, which clinic did this, and—" I tapped the envelope— "find out who sent this package."

Vincent tucked the photos away and clapped a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm on it. Watch yourself in the meantime. Someone's been pulling strings behind this whole thing."

While I waited, I stayed in a hotel. I couldn't go back to that apartment.

Iris's phone went straight to voicemail. She had vanished completely, as if she'd never existed.

Three days later, Vincent called me to his office.

When I walked in, his face was grim. He dropped a thick stack of documents on the desk.

"Lucien, it's worse than you think."

He pointed to the first page. "Iris is a real person. Five years ago, there was a serious explosion and fire at a chemical plant on the outskirts of the city. She was a line worker there at the time. After the fire, she was listed as missing—several bodies recovered at the scene were burned beyond identification."

My stomach dropped. Five years ago. A fire.

Aurora also died in a fire five years ago. But Aurora's was at an art gallery downtown.

"Is that a coincidence?" My voice came out tight.

"No." Vincent pulled out a photograph. A young man in a white coat—clean-cut, gold-framed glasses, something cold and unsettling in his eyes despite the composed expression.

"This is Julian. One of the top plastic surgeons in the city." Vincent tapped the photo. "And the attending physician on that medical file."

I stared at Julian's face. Something about it nagged at me—familiar in a way I couldn't place.

"You might not know him directly," Vincent said. "But here's his background." He drew a slow breath. "Julian went to the same high school as Aurora. He was obsessed with her. Pursued her relentlessly—until she got engaged to you. That's when he backed off."

Boom!

The silence hit me like a physical blow.

Julian. I remembered now. At our engagement dinner, there had been a man sitting in the corner the entire night—watching me with this flat, reptilian stare. That was him.

"So…" My voice was unsteady. "Julian found Iris in the wreckage, funded her recovery, and paid to have her reconstructed to look like Aurora?"

"Exactly." Vincent nodded. "He runs a private clinic—very discreet. Iris was there for a full year. Thirteen major surgeries. Every bill paid from Julian's personal accounts."

I sank back in the chair.

A man who had been obsessed with my fiancée had spent a year sculpting a living replica and then placed that replica in my life.

For what?

To watch me hold a counterfeit and feel grateful? To watch me live out a lie?

"Who sent the package?" I asked, jaw locked.

Vincent shook his head. "Can't trace it. Delivered by a local courier app, ordered from a burner number. Security footage shows someone in a mask and a cap—can't make out a face. My best guess? Someone who knew about the whole setup—a rival of Julian's, or someone who stumbled on the truth and wanted leverage."

I grabbed my car keys off the desk.

"Where are you going?" Vincent caught my arm.

"To find Julian." My voice was flat. "I want to know where Iris is. And I want to know what he's been planning."