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I’d always dreamt of going on a shopping spree like this—designer stores, endless racks of silk and fine wool, the swish of elegant fabrics against my skin. But not like this.

Not for this reason.

This wasn’t a dream come true. It was a wardrobe crafted for deception—a carefully curated illusion meant to help Alexander secure his inheritance. Or so I told myself.

So, I let the saleslady an overly enthusiastic woman in stilettos and red lipstick make most of the choices. She seemed to know exactly what would impress, what would flatter, and she was clearly thrilled by the endless stream of credit flowing from the Blackwood account.

Still, I couldn’t pretend I didn’t enjoy the feel of silk gliding across my skin. I’d never owned anything so luxurious. Every piece fit like it had been made for me alone. Cinched waists, flowing skirts, soft fabrics that draped my figure in quiet elegance. The woman I saw in the mirror didn’t look like a girl from a rundown shack. She looked… poised.

When the saleslady suggested I cut and style my hair to match my “new image,” I surprised myself by agreeing.

A few snips later, my long waves were replaced by soft, shoulder-length curls that framed my face perfectly. They made my eyes pop, softened the sharpness of my cheekbones, and left me feeling like someone entirely new.

I had woken up that morning feeling restless, haunted by the dream I’d had the night before. I’d called the hospital first thing, desperate to hear something….anything that would ease the ache in my chest.

Instead, I got a shock.

“Your mother’s been transferred to a private hospital,” the nurse said calmly over the phone. “A better facility arranged by your husband, Mr. Blackwood.”

Husband.

The word still didn’t sit right in my head.

“She’s in a much more comfortable environment now,” the nurse continued. “You can visit anytime.”

She still hadn’t woken from the coma, but at least she was safe. Cared for. No longer surrounded by flickering lights and crumbling walls.

Another calculated move by Alexander, I was sure. But still… it eased something heavy in my chest.

By the time I returned to the mansion, the driver was already unloading the last of my shopping bags. Lucy came out to greet me, her hands reaching for the bags as she offered a warm smile.

“Ma’am, welcome back,” she said kindly. “Let me help you unpack and get ready. Mr. Blackwood is home, but he’s in his study. He asked not to be disturbed.”

Of course, he did.

I took a long, luxurious bath before slipping into one of my new outfits. A pale blue woolen dress with a white collar that traced the curve of my throat like a whisper. The fabric was soft and delicate, the lines sleek against my figure. I ran my fingers through the styled waves of my shoulder-length hair and studied the reflection staring back at me in the vanity mirror.

I didn’t recognize her.

She wasn’t just dressed differently, she carried herself differently. She looked like a woman who had walked through fire and come out with smoke in her eyes.

I had never been in bed with a man, yet somehow, I looked like I’d already been burned by love.

A knock pulled me from my thoughts.

“Ma’am?” Lucy peeked into the dressing room, then paused. Her eyes widened with open awe. “Oh… Ma’am, you look beautiful.”

Without waiting for an invitation, she stepped closer and gently touched the ends of my hair with admiration.

“Thank you, Lucy,” I said softly, chuckling under my breath. “What’s going on?”

She straightened. “I came to inform you… Mr. Blackwood is in the garden.”

I blinked. “I thought he was in his study.”

“Well, he was. But… his stepmother arrived a few hours ago while you were bathing.”

I froze. “What?”

“She’s here… with her son and his wife. They’re having brunch in the garden. Mr. Blackwood is entertaining them.”

My heart skipped.

She just arrived? Already?

So soon after he’d mentioned her yesterday?

This performance… it was happening faster than I expected.

“They’re here now?” I asked.

“Yes, Ma’am. Would you like to join them?”

“Yes… I’ll be down shortly.”

As Lucy left, I took one more glance at myself in the mirror. Whatever this meeting would be, I needed to look the part. Elegant, confident and composed.

Mrs. Blackwood.

Not the terrified girl beneath the mask.

I walked through the house, the soft click of my mules echoing against the marble floors as I stepped outside into the sunlight.

But the moment I neared the garden, I heard his voice.

Sharp. Angry.

“You bitch! Shut the fuck up and tell your mom to stuff her face in bread!”

I stopped cold.

Alexander’s voice was laced with fury.

Then came another voice feminine, older, refined, yet biting.

“And you’re an ungrateful idiot! I took good care of you when your mother died. You were nothing but a spoiled mutt!”

Her accent was posh and polished like someone who drank wine at noon and spoke with a silver spoon in her mouth. But behind it… was venom.

I stepped closer.

Four people sat around the garden brunch table. The moment they saw me, their conversation halted abruptly. Eyes turned.

Three pairs locked on me with a strange mix of surprise, confusion… and curiosity.

Alexander stood quickly.

“My darling,” he said, and for a brief second, I almost believed it.

He crossed the grass to me, slid an arm around my waist, and leaned in to press a kiss on the side of my face. The warmth of it, the sudden intimacy…. it stunned me.

This was all an act. But God… he played it so well.

“Everyone,” he said in a calm, proud voice, “I want you to meet my wife… Beatrice Blackwood.”

I froze.

The smile on my lips almost slipped.

Beatrice?

My heart plummeted into my stomach.

I swallowed hard, forcing the smile to stay. My eyes flicked toward the older woman across the table—his stepmother.

She stared at me with piercing, icy blue eyes, like she was trying to see through my skin… like she already had.

And in that moment, everything clicked.

This was why he’d chosen me.

To trick her.

To make her believe I was someone else.

The woman in that painting I suppose. The one I hadn’t dared ask more about.

But still… he should’ve warned me. He should’ve told me beforehand to prepare for this particular act.

I tried to keep my composure, but inside, I was spinning.

And when Alexander tightened his grip around my waist with a subtle warning pressure, I felt like I was going to collapse.