Playing Pretend

The mirror lies. My hands tremble as I trace Valentina's reflection, trying to match her signature stance. Too tall. Too stiff. My muscles fight against unfamiliar dimensions.

"The Chanel suits you better than the Versace."

Nicolas's voice freezes me mid-reach. He leans against the doorframe, dark eyes studying my every move. Testing me.

"I thought you had meetings this morning." My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

"Watching my wife recover is more important." He steps closer. Too close. "You're holding yourself differently today."

"The doctors said there might be..." I falter as his hand brushes my shoulder, adjusting the blazer's fit.

"Muscle memory issues?" His breath tickles my ear. "Or something else entirely?"

Before I can respond, a cascade of silk hangers clatters to the floor. Damn these extra two inches of height. Nicolas's reflexes are faster—he catches the falling clothes while I'm still processing the noise.

"You never were clumsy before the accident." His tone carries an edge of suspicion.

"People change." I turn back to the mirror, reaching for Valentina's signature eyeliner. The golden flecks in my borrowed eyes mock me.

"Not this much." He watches as I struggle with the unfamiliar angle. "Unless they're forced to."

The eyeliner trembles in my grip as a flash of memory hits—cold tile against my cheek, Adrian's voice calm as he watched me die. The black line smears across Valentina's perfect cheekbone.

"Shit." I grab for a tissue, but Nicolas is already there, his thumb gently wiping away the mistake.

"Let me help." His touch lingers longer than necessary. "You used to do this with your eyes closed."

"Maybe I just want to see myself clearly now."

His hand freezes against my skin. "And what do you see?"

The truth burns in my throat. *A dead woman wearing another dead woman's face.* "Someone who needs coffee."

He laughs, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Then let's get you some."

The kitchen should be familiar. I've studied the blueprints, memorized the security footage. But standing here, faced with Valentina's elaborate Italian espresso machine, I might as well be defusing a bomb.

"Wrong button." Nicolas appears behind me, his chest pressed against my back as he guides my hands. "You're thinking too hard."

"Maybe I've forgotten how to stop." 

His fingers interlock with mine, adjusting the pressure on the grinder. "Or maybe you never knew in the first place."

"Mama's using the wrong beans." Sofia's voice cuts through the tension. "You only like Brazilian Santos."

Luna scrambles onto the counter before I can respond, reaching for the pancake mix. "I want chocolate chips!"

Nicolas catches her before she can fall, but his eyes never leave my face. "Careful, *tesoro*. We wouldn't want any accidents."

The word hits like a slap. *Accident.* Like Valentina's car crash. Like my "suicide."

"No," I manage, forcing a smile. "We certainly wouldn't."

His study feels like a trap, every surface potentially hiding evidence of my true identity. But I need answers. The hidden compartment reveals itself by accident—a misplaced step activating a pressure plate Valentina must have installed.

The USB drive clatters against my borrowed feet just as knuckles rap against wood.

"Mrs. Salvatore?" Marcus Reyes, head of security, his timing suspicious. "Do you have a moment?"

I barely manage to slide Valentina's journal into her oversized Hermès bag. "Of course, come in."

He enters with a stack of surveillance photos. "We've been monitoring some concerning activity."

My breath catches as I spot myself in one of the images—Isabella Romano, alive and unknowing, walking into what would become her tomb. "When were these taken?"

"Just before the Constantine wedding announcement." His eyes narrow slightly. "You asked us to track them, remember?"

"Of course." I force my hands to remain steady. "And what have we learned?"

"That's what I wanted to discuss." He spreads more photos across the desk. "There are... inconsistencies in the Romano girl's death."

My heart pounds against Valentina's ribs. "What kind of inconsistencies?"

"The kind that get people killed." His hand brushes mine as he reaches for another photo. "Like your accident."

The implications hang heavy between us. Did Valentina know? Was she investigating my murder when they silenced her?

A distant clock chimes noon, saving me from having to respond. "I should check on the girls."

"Of course." His gaze follows me to the door. "Just remember—some mysteries are better left unsolved."

But I've never been good at leaving things alone. That's what got me killed in the first place.

The garden offers no peace. Nicolas finds me by Valentina's prized roses, my fingers bleeding from thorns I should have known to avoid.

"You used to handle them so carefully." He captures my hand, examining the cuts. "Like the night we met."

"Tell me about it." The words slip out before I can stop them.

His thumb traces circles on my palm. "The charity gala. You were wearing red, arguing with the event coordinator about rose arrangements." A smile tugs at his mouth. "You said anyone who couldn't appreciate Black Baccara roses didn't deserve them."

"And you agreed?"

"I agreed you were the most fascinating woman I'd ever met." His face inches closer. "Still are."

The sprinklers activate with suspicious timing, forcing us apart. Through the mist, I catch Elena's shadow at an upstairs window. Watching. Always watching.

In Valentina's private sitting room, the journal's electronic lock yields to borrowed fingerprints. The pages reveal a woman I never knew—one who died trying to expose my murder.

*Isabella Romano - autopsy irregularities,* one entry reads. *Meeting Dr. Martinez tomorrow. Must confirm Constantine connection.*

Tomorrow never came for either of us.

A photo slips free—Valentina and Dr. Martinez at a medical conference, Elena lurking in the background like a beautifully dressed vulture. The same expression she wears now, strutting into my stolen home wearing the exact shade of lipstick Valentina wore the day she died.

"Santa Muerte sends regards." The words whisper past her false smile as she embraces me.

I dig Valentina's manicured nails into my palms, letting the pain ground me. "How thoughtful of her to remember me."

"Oh, she never forgets." Elena's eyes glitter with malice. "Especially those who owe her."

We trade barbed pleasantries over tea, each word a carefully aimed weapon. She touches the Santa Muerte pendant at her throat—identical to the one found near my body.

"Such a tragic business with poor Isabella," she muses. "Don't you find it strange how many accidents happen in our circle?"

Before I can respond, my phone buzzes. Dr. Martinez's number lights up the screen.

"I've found something in the toxicology report," he starts without preamble. "The substances in her system—"

The line goes dead as the lights flicker. Through the window's reflection, I catch Nicolas slipping something into his pocket.

"Problems with the call?" His voice carries dangerous curiosity.

"Just my physical therapist." The lie tastes bitter. "Following up on my recovery."

"Interesting." He pulls out his phone, and my heart stops as I glimpse the text reflected in Valentina's carefully positioned mirror: *DNA results confirmed. Not a match.*

The twins' laughter echoes from upstairs—a timely escape route. But as I turn to leave, Nicolas's words

follow me:

"We all wear masks, *cara*. Some just fit better than others."

Two hundred days suddenly feels like no time at all.