Chapter 6
1420 Words
Irene jolted awake, her eyes darting around the unfamiliar room. The sterile scent of disinfectant hit her nose, and it took a moment for her vision to focus. She was lying in a hospital bed, the steady beeping of a heart monitor confirming what her aching body already knew—she was alive.
Barely.
Her body throbbed with pain, a dull ache pulsing through her chest, ribs, and limbs. Her mind, still swimming in murky confusion, tried to piece together what had happened.
The water. The crash. The cold. The darkness.
Her heart raced.
She tried to sit up, but a sharp pain seized her ribs, forcing her back down with a gasp.
“You should take it easy,” a cold, all-too-familiar voice said.
Her head snapped to the side.
Stefan.
He stood at the corner of the room, arms folded, his expression unreadable. Dressed in black as always, he looked calm—far too calm for someone who’d just witnessed someone almost die.
“What are you doing here?” she croaked.
A smirk curled at the edge of his lips. “Is that how you thank the man who saved your life?”
She blinked, confused, her lips parting.
“Don’t bother saying thank you,” he said, walking toward her bed. “You owe me. And I plan to collect.”
Alarm bells rang in her mind. “What… what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the murder of a certain loan shark. About a getaway that turned into a public scene.Do you really think anyone’s going to believe it wasn’t your fault?” His voice was laced with quiet venom.
Irene’s eyes widened in horror. “That wasn’t—he tried to—” she choked, but Stefan raised a hand to silence her.
“Save it. You’re in no position to argue.”
He moved closer, pressing down on her shoulder when she tried to sit up. “From today, you are Giselle Monroe. You’ll do exactly what I say. You will pretend to have lost your memory. Say anything out of line, and I will personally make sure you rot in jail for murder. And if that’s not enough… I’ll go after your family next.”
Her blood ran cold. Her hands trembled under the covers. Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back. She wasn’t going to cry—not in front of him.
“Do you understand?” he asked again, his eyes narrowing.
Irene nodded slowly, lips pressed into a tight line.
“Good.” He straightened his suit jacket. “Giselle’s parents will be here soon. You’ll keep quiet. Let the doctor do the talking. Don’t overthink anything—I’ll handle all of that.”
He turned and walked out, leaving her alone.
She could barely breathe.
Minutes later, the door opened again. A well-dressed man in his sixties entered, slightly overweight with greying hair, followed by a poised blonde woman who kept her distance. Irene recognized them immediately—Giselle’s parents.
Or rather, her father and stepmother.
Her grip on the blanket tightened.
They’ll notice I’m not her. They’ll know. They’ll see it in my eyes.
But when the man approached, his face etched with worry and grief, all he said was, “Do you recognize us?”
She froze.
He moved closer, crouching beside the bed. “Please… say something, my child.”
Her throat closed. She couldn’t speak. She simply stared at him, heart pounding.
The doctor stepped in just in time.
“Mr. Monroe, memory loss after such trauma is to be expected. Give her time.”
Giselle’s father—Mr. Monroe—nodded solemnly, brushing a gentle hand through her hair.
The woman behind him stood silently, hands folded. Her face gave nothing away.
An assistant popped his head in. “Senator, the President is waiting.”
Mr. Monroe leaned down, kissed Irene’s forehead gently, and whispered, “We’ll be back soon.”
And then they were gone.
Moments later, Stefan reappeared, his assistant trailing behind him.
He tossed a bundle of clothes onto the bed. “Get dressed. We’re leaving.”
Irene stared at him in disbelief, then slowly pulled herself from the bed, every movement stiff and painful.
As she dressed, one question burned in her chest. “Where is Giselle?” she asked quietly. “You said she’s brain dead…”
Stefan’s face darkened, and for the first time, his calm facade slipped.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he nodded at his assistant, who wheeled a stretcher out from beneath the bed.
Irene gasped and stumbled backward at the sight of Giselle’s lifeless body.
The resemblance was terrifying.
Her knees buckled, and she raced into the adjoining bathroom, retching violently into the sink. Her hands trembled as she clutched the cold porcelain. Her reflection in the mirror mocked her—*You’re alive. She’s not. And now, you're her.*
Her thoughts spiraled.
What would her mother think?
Venus?
Would they think she was dead?
Could she really let them believe that?
A knock on the door snapped her out of her panic.
Stefan’s voice called, “Let’s go.”
When she stepped out, Giselle’s body was gone.
The drive to Giselle’s apartment was painfully quiet. Irene sat stiffly, staring out the window, her mind racing. Could she escape? Could she find a phone? Tell someone?
No. If she tried and failed, she wouldn’t just pay for it—her family would.
The car stopped outside a towering apartment complex in an upscale district of New York. The building shimmered in the afternoon sun, its sleek design screaming wealth and power.
Irene followed Stefan into the penthouse suite.
It was breathtaking. Clean, sharp lines, marble floors, gold accents, and glass walls that offered a panoramic view of the city. But what caught her eye were the photos—Giselle, in different poses, outfits, smiles frozen in time.
A large portrait hung above the fireplace. Irene stood in front of it, numb.
“We may look alike,” she whispered, “but we’ve lived two very different lives. How do you expect me to pull this off?”
“It’s hard,” Stefan admitted, “but not impossible. Giselle lived most of her life in France. Her father’s political career kept them apart. Her stepmother never bonded with her. And since she moved here, she’s been isolated. No real friends. No job. No close ties.”
He pushed a small velvet box toward her. “This is her engagement ring. And her favorite necklace.”
She opened the box slowly. The ring shimmered in the light. Without thinking, she slipped it on.
It fit perfectly.
Stefan took her to the study and handed her a tablet.
“There’s French language software loaded here. Books on etiquette. Files on her classmates. I’ve marked the ones she interacted with most. Learn them all.”
She looked at him, puzzled. “How do you know so much about her? You even have the code to her house. Were you close?”
He leaned in, his face inches from hers.
“I know a lot of things,” he said softly. “Not just about Giselle… but about Irene Garfield too.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Don’t,” she whispered.
He smirked.
“I’ll return tomorrow. My assistant will stay here with you.”
Her stomach dropped. “No. I don’t want him here. I’d rather be alone.”
Stefan’s smile faded. He took a slow step toward her, then another, until she was backed into the wall.
His hand shot out, gripping her neck—not enough to choke, but enough to terrify.
“Don’t test me,” he growled. “I know what you’re thinking, and I’m warning you—don’t.”
“I—I already agreed,” Irene rasped. “But I don’t want your assistant here. Please.”
He studied her face for a long moment, then released her.
“Fine. This fire… this is how Giselle is when she wants something. I’ll grant your wish.”
He turned on his heel and left.
Irene collapsed onto the couch, clutching her neck.
She needed a phone. Anything.
In the bedroom, she found a landline—disconnected.
She slid to the floor, broken.
Tears streamed do
wn her face.
How did her life become this?
Then—ding dong.
Her head snapped up.
The doorbell.
Her heart pounded.
Was Stefan back?
No. He wouldn’t ring.
Then who was it?
- Writer
