The year Victor lost everyone who mattered, I left him. Then he clawed his way up to become the Godfather of the New York Mafia — and forced me to marry him. Everyone said I was the one who got away. His untouchable. His obsession. Until he started parading a college girl around town. A girl who looked just like me. Overnight, I became a joke. I didn't cry. I didn't fight back. When he used the money meant for my pain injections to buy her gifts, I just turned and walked away. He lost it. He pinned me against the wall, teeth clenched. "Would it kill you to bend, just once?" He didn't know. I was the one dying. Every day he spent punishing me, I was quietly counting down the days I had left.

Right before my freshman year of college, I joined our class group chat. The moment I logged in, a girl posing as a "Beverly Hills heiress" dropped a photo of herself gripping the steering wheel of a Ferrari. She even had the audacity to caption it: "Whoever becomes my boyfriend gets the car." I was about to roll my eyes at the cringeworthy flex when a tiny detail in the photo made me freeze. That little Golden Retriever dashboard ornament... why was it identical to the one I had custom-made for a fortune? Wait. That was my car. Then who the hell was she? I tapped on her profile picture and let out a cold laugh. Oh, look, it's the daughter of the cleaning lady my family just hired last week. I was in Europe the whole summer. So she'd never seen me, the real heiress, in person. Watching her soak up the pathetic bootlicking from our classmates in the chat, I held back the urge to expose her on the spot. Things had just gotten interesting. I was going to toy with this impostor—and make her pay.