Double Edge

# Chapter 14: Double Edge

The crystal wine glass slipped from my fingers.

"As I was saying about the Carboni territory—" My voice died as I realized I had no memory of starting that sentence.

Don Carboni's weathered face watched me expectantly. The other family heads leaned forward, waiting for words I couldn't remember speaking. My heart hammered against my ribs as I glanced down at the shattered glass, red wine spreading like blood across imported marble.

"Forgive me," I murmured, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. "Where exactly was I?"

Elena's perfectly manicured fingers drummed against the mahogany table. "You were explaining why the Carboni family should cede their dock access to us." Her hazel eyes narrowed. "Unless you've changed your mind?"

Five minutes. I'd lost five minutes of a crucial negotiation. The lipstick marks on my remaining wine glass caught my eye – two slightly different shades of red, neither quite matching what I'd applied this morning.

"The docks," I said, buying time. "Yes, of course—"

"Perhaps we should take a brief recess," Nicolas cut in smoothly, his hand finding mine under the table. His thumb traced circles against my palm – a gesture meant to soothe, but it felt wrong somehow. Like my skin didn't quite fit.

"Excellent idea," Elena purred, rising from her seat. "Some fresh air might help clear everyone's head."

I barely made it to the master bathroom before my legs gave out. The marble was cold against my knees as I clutched the counter, forcing myself to look in the mirror. My reflection stared back, but something was wrong with the eyes. They seemed to shift between my familiar amber and something steelier, more gray.

That's when I saw it. Written in my favorite shade of MAC Russian Red:

*Stop fighting me. This body was mine first.*

My hands shook as I grabbed a tissue to wipe away the message. The lipstick smeared, revealing older, fainter writing underneath. How long had she been leaving me messages? How many times had I wiped away her words without remembering?

"Mommy?" Sofia's voice drifted through the door. "Luna wants to know if we can play the sorting game again."

I steadied myself against the sink. "What sorting game, sweetheart?"

"The one where we put the stuffed animals in piles!" Luna chimed in. "Mommy's favorites and Other Mommy's favorites!"

Ice slid down my spine. Through the crack in the door, I could see Nicolas watching our daughters, his face dark with concern.

"Why don't you girls go play?" His voice was carefully neutral. "Mommy needs a moment."

I turned back to the mirror, but my reflection wasn't cooperating anymore. The woman staring back at me had my face but her expressions, her movements slightly out of sync with mine. She mouthed words I couldn't hear, reaching toward the glass as if trying to break through.

"Stop," I whispered. "Please stop."

The reflection smiled – not my smile, *hers* – and pressed her palm flat against the glass. Without thinking, I reached out to match it. The moment our hands aligned, searing pain shot through my skull.

I stumbled to my desk, grabbing paper and pen. The weapons shipment details had to be recorded before—

The pen skittered across paper as my right hand suddenly became clumsy, unfamiliar. The neat lines of my handwriting devolved into something messier, more angular. Left-handed. Her handwriting.

"No," I growled, forcing my right hand to keep writing. "Not now. Not yet."

"Having trouble?" Elena's voice made me jump. She stood in the doorway, watching my reflection more than me. "You seemed... distracted during the meeting."

"Just a headache," I managed, but the words felt thick in my mouth. Foreign.

"Really?" She moved closer, perfectly cut blonde hair catching the light. "Because for a moment there, you sounded exactly like—"

"Like who?" The challenge in my voice wasn't entirely mine.

Elena's smile turned predatory. "Like someone who's been dead for seven years."

The migraine intensified, threatening to split my skull. I needed to get to the wine cellar – needed to think, to breathe, to—

"The '82 Bordeaux," I murmured, my feet carrying me down the stairs. "Nicolas's favorite."

*My favorite,* a voice whispered in my head. *You hate red wine.*

"Everything alright, love?" Nicolas's voice startled me. He stood at the bottom of the cellar stairs, watching as I cradled the bottle. "I thought you couldn't stand Bordeaux."

"I love this vintage," I said automatically, then frowned. "I mean, I hate it. I mean—"

The bottle slipped from my suddenly nerveless fingers. Nicolas caught it, but his expression had changed. He took a step back, dark eyes calculating.

"The twins want a bedtime story," he said carefully. "Their favorite, about the beach house."

"Of course," I replied, even as panic clawed at my throat. What beach house? What story?

But as I followed him upstairs, memories that weren't mine began to surface. A yellow beach house in the Hamptons. Sandcastles at sunset. The twins' laughter carrying on the breeze.

"Tell it like Other Mommy does," Sofia demanded as I perched on her bed. "With the part about the seashells!"

The words came without thought, spilling from my lips in a voice that was almost, but not quite, my own. "Remember how we collected shells that summer morning..."

From the doorway, Elena watched, her phone discreetly recording every word.

Later, alone in Nicolas's study, I found the letter. The paper was expensive, the handwriting elegant and left-handed. My heart stopped as I read the first line:

*My dearest Nicolas,*

*There's something you need to know about your real father...*

The door clicked shut behind me. I turned to find Nicolas there, his expression unreadable.

"Found something interesting?" he asked softly. But the real question burned in his eyes:

*Who are you really?*