The heir's Disguise

The phone call came at 1:12 a.m. “Miss Cross?” The voice on the other end was clipped, urgent. “It’s your brother. You need to get to St. Alban’s Hospital. Now.” My heart stopped. “What happened to Lucas?” A pause, heavy enough to crush the air between us. “They say… it was a car accident.” I didn’t bother with shoes. My boots were still damp from the rain earlier, but I shoved them on, grabbed my keys, and was in my car within seconds. The streets were slick under the sodium-orange glow of streetlights, the city hushed except for the occasional hiss of tires slicing through puddles. Lucas never drove at night. Never. When I reached St. Alban’s, a black SUV was already parked at the entrance, engine idling. A tall man stepped out, rain glistening on his dark hair. Even without the tailored suit and the steel in his posture, I’d have recognized him instantly. Ethan Ward. Head of security for Cross Enterprises. My brother’s right-hand man. And, once upon a time, the boy I’d had a stupid, hopeless crush on. His gaze landed on me, sharp and assessing, before softening just enough to remind me he was human. “Lena,” he said, striding toward me. “I tried to call, but—” “I know. I’m here.” My voice was breathless, my mind already racing ahead. “Where is he?” “In surgery. Critical condition. The doctors say he’s… he’s in a coma.” The words sank like stones in my chest. “What exactly happened?” “That’s the problem.” His jaw tightened. “Police report says a hit-and-run. But I checked the crash site myself. There were no skid marks. No debris from another vehicle. His car was forced off the road.” “You’re saying—” “I’m saying it wasn’t an accident.” His eyes locked on mine, dark and unflinching. “And whoever did it knew exactly what they were doing.” --- They let me see him an hour later. Lucas looked wrong. Too still. A white bandage wrapped around his head, bruises blooming along his jawline. Machines beeped in steady, infuriating calm, as if mocking the chaos inside me. I took his hand. It was warm, solid—proof he was still here. “You can’t do this to me,” I whispered. “You don’t get to leave me alone with all of this.” Ethan stood in the doorway, arms folded, a shadow in the harsh hospital light. “There’s something else you need to know.” I glanced at him, wary. “What?” “Tomorrow morning, you’re expected at the board meeting. Lucas was going to announce the merger with Draycott Industries. If the board finds out he’s in a coma, the deal dies… and so does the company.” A bitter laugh escaped me. “So what? You want me to stand in for him? Tell them he’s fine while he’s lying here?” “Not just tell them.” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “You could… be him. At least for now. Until we know who did this, and why.” The suggestion was insane. Reckless. Impossible. Except… I’d spent my whole life being mistaken for my twin brother. We had the same bone structure, the same amber-brown eyes, the same dark hair. A quick haircut, a suit, and the right angle could fool most people. And if I didn’t do it, everything Lucas built—everything our parents died protecting—would be gone. I looked down at my brother’s motionless face. “I can’t.” Ethan’s gaze pinned me. “You can. And you will. Unless you’re ready to watch Cross Enterprises burn.” --- By sunrise, I was in Lucas’s penthouse, scissors in hand, cutting my hair in the bathroom mirror. My hands shook, but each lock that fell into the sink made me more certain. Ethan leaned against the doorway, watching with a mix of approval and something else—something I couldn’t name. “Your posture,” he said, stepping forward to adjust my shoulders. “Lucas always stands like he’s ready to fight someone.” “Maybe he’s not the only one,” I muttered. He smirked. “That’s better.” --- The boardroom was a cathedral of glass and steel, every gleaming surface reflecting the version of myself I wasn’t sure I could pull off. Ethan walked beside me, a silent shield. Every step felt heavier, the weight of a thousand eyes waiting to see if “Lucas Cross” was still the ruthless, untouchable heir they knew. I slid into my brother’s seat at the head of the table. Conversations quieted. “Good morning,” I said, deepening my voice the way Lucas did when he wanted to intimidate someone. “Let’s get started.” For a moment, it worked. Pages rustled, screens lit up, and the meeting began. And then— A woman’s voice, low but sharp, from somewhere near the end of the table: “That’s not him.” ---