"If hell had a name, it would be Eleanor’s touch. If destruction had a face, it would look exactly like this dead woman’s mask I’m forced to wear." Avery was a washed-up actress living on borrowed time until the night her soul found its price. She had one thing worth selling: a face that was a haunting carbon copy of the late socialite, Isabella. On a night drowned in a torrential downpour, Eleanor—the bloodthirsty titan of a media empire—crashed into Avery’s derelict apartment. She didn't come for a rescue; she came with a contract that smelled of rain and cold ambition, dragging Avery into a twisted game of high-society survival. To survive, Avery has to murder her own identity. She endures the agonizing precision of reconstructive procedures, lying in sterile medical bays while they remodel her bone structure to replicate a ghost. She is Eleanor’s most exquisite puppet, a substitute hidden in the shadows of a sprawling mansion. Every time Eleanor claims her against the floor-to-ceiling windows of her penthouse, she isn't looking at Avery. She’s searching for the echoes of a dead woman beneath the skin. But beneath the throne of power built on secrets, the truth is more suffocating than death itself. A blood-stained diary unearthed in the attic reveals the gore behind the glamour of the A-list life. As the men who once blacklisted Avery are systematically dismantled and old-money dukes are brought to their knees, Avery realizes something terrifying: she’s becoming addicted to the thrill of the wreckage. Is Eleanor her savior, or her executioner? As the boundaries of their contract are bitten away and Avery decides to snap the leash of ownership, the power struggle between two broken souls begins its lethal climax. "Stop looking for her in the mirror, darling. Look into my eyes instead—and tell me, who is your Queen now?"