The Wrong Twin
1505 Words
That man with the familiar voice stood in front of her, composed and unreadable. He had already given his leather jacket to Eleanor earlier, now standing in a crisp white shirt with a fitted vest—every bit the perfect corporate man, polished enough to blend into any high-profile room without raising suspicion.
Yet nothing about him felt ordinary.
His eyes rested on her, steady and probing.
“So,” he said, his voice calm but edged with something deeper, “you know me?”
Eleanor nodded once. Yes.
A faint shift crossed his expression. “Then tell me… who am I?”
Eleanor held his gaze, her voice quiet but firm. “I hope you know who you are. I don’t have to say it out loud for you.”
For a second, silence stretched between them.
Then he let out a quiet, humorless chuckle. “You know nothing. I’m sure of that. You’re bluffing.”
Eleanor didn’t look away. “I saw you,” she replied. “In my father’s office. A few times.”
His gaze lingered on her longer now, sharper, heavier—like he was trying to peel her apart layer by layer.
“Then call me by my name," he said.
Eleanor went still.
Because she couldn’t.
She had seen him—once, maybe more—hurt and bleeding. But she had never truly known him. He existed in the same world, yet always beyond her reach.
So she said nothing.
A small smirk appeared on his lips, slow and knowing.
“You only saw me once or twice,” he said. “That doesn’t mean you know me. You don’t even know my name.”
Eleanor looked at him carefully now.
He was exceptionally handsome. Confident. Calm.
But behind all of that—
There was something else.
A darkness that didn’t belong in the clean, structured world he dressed for. Something that lingered beneath the surface, quiet but heavy.
Something that made people instinctively step back… or obey.
Eleanor felt it wrap around her like a shadow she couldn’t escape.
He leaned slightly closer, his voice lowering, almost gentle.
“Let me tell you who I am, Edith.”
The name hit her like a slap.
Edith.
Of course.
Her breath caught, and her thoughts spiraled all at once.
So that’s it.
They really think I’m her.
They were after Edith… not me.
Of course. This… was meant for her. Even now...I’m just the mistake.
A bitter realization settled in her chest, heavy and suffocating.
Her bad luck had finally taken a form she couldn’t outrun.
He snapped his fingers lightly in front of her face.
“Are you listening?” he said, a hint of amusement threading his voice. “You seem… elsewhere.”
Eleanor blinked, pulling herself back. “I’m sorry… what did you say?”
Then she met his eyes again and asked, more quietly this time, “Who are you?”
He exhaled slowly, almost as if disappointed.
“Let’s just say… I am a very bad person. I don’t fix problems. I remove them,” he said simply. “And you won’t like how I do it.”
“Now,” he continued, gesturing lazily to the man standing beside him, “be a good girl.”
The man stepped forward immediately, handing him a small burner phone.
He held it out toward her.
“Call your father,” he said. “And tell him what I told you before.”
Eleanor didn’t take it right away.
Her mind raced.
What happens… when they realize?
When they understand I’m not Edith?
I’m not the one they want.
What do they do with the mistake?
Her fingers finally closed around the phone.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then—
“Hello?” Her father’s voice.
Eleanor swallowed. “Dad—”
“Don’t say anything,” his voice cut in instantly, sharp and controlled. “I repeat—don’t tell them anything. Not a word. Stay quiet. Just listen.”
Her grip tightened on the phone.
“I will get you out,” he continued. “No matter what.”
“B-but they want something from you—”
“I know what they want,” he snapped, not letting her finish. “You do exactly as I say. Nothing else.”
And then—
The line went dead.
Eleanor stared at the phone in silence.
Her eyes burned.
But no tears came.
Of course he would choose Edith.
The perfect daughter.
The one worth saving.
This wasn’t new.
It had never been.
And yet, each time… it cut deeper. Left quieter, sharper scars—driving the pain further in.
The man in front of her watched her closely.
“What did your father say?” he asked. “You didn’t even tell him anything.”
Eleanor lifted her gaze to meet his.
Her voice was quiet.
Steady.
“You’ll get what you want. Just not the way you expect.”
The man’s phone rang. He rose to take the call, stepping slightly aside. After a few moments, he turned back, his expression unreadable, and motioned to his men.
“Leave,” he said quietly.
Without question, they obeyed.
⸻
Adrian Van Laurent had already confirmed that his daughter Edith was safe—alive, under watch, confined within the sterile walls of the hospital.
But his other daughter…
Eleanor was nowhere to be found.
Lucien’s men had taken her—mistaking her for Edith.
Adrian’s lips curved slightly.
“Perfect.”
His fingers resting lightly against the edge of the desk, tapping once—slow, deliberate.
Eleanor was never meant to be part of this. And yet… his gaze lowered, thoughtful, a faint shift crossing his expression.
This could work.
Mistakes like this create leverage.
His smirk returned, colder now.
⸻
In the quiet stillness of the hospital room, Edith’s consciousness returned slowly.
At first, there was only light.
Soft. Blinding.
Her fingers twitched—eyelids fluttered.
And then—she opened her eyes.
The world came into focus in fragments. A pale ceiling. White walls. The dull hum of machinery. And then—
A face.
Her mother’s face.
Sophia van Laurent had been waiting at her bedside, every second stretched thin with worry, her gaze never once leaving her unconscious daughter.
Sophia leaned over her, eyes wide with worry, her usually composed features softened by relief and exhaustion.
“Edith… thank God,” she whispered, her voice trembling despite her attempt to steady it. “You’re awake.”
Edith blinked slowly, her vision still hazy. Her throat felt dry, her body heavy, as if it didn’t fully belong to her yet.
“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” Sophia asked gently, brushing a strand of hair away from Edith’s forehead.
Edith shifted slightly, wincing at the unfamiliar weakness in her limbs. Her gaze drifted around the room, taking in the IV line attached to her hand, the monitors beside her bed, the quiet, clinical emptiness.
“Where am I?” she murmured, though her voice sounded distant even to herself.
“You’re in the hospital,” Sophia replied softly, her hand still resting against Edith’s cheek as if grounding herself in the reality that her daughter was awake. “You were unwell, dear.”
Edith frowned faintly, confusion knitting her brows. “Unwell?” she repeated. “What happened to me?”
Sophia hesitated—just for a second.
But Edith noticed.
“It was… a medicinal overdose,” she said carefully, her tone measured, almost too controlled. “You don’t need to worry about that right now. The doctors have taken care of everything.”
Edith’s eyes searched her mother’s face, as if trying to read something beneath the words.
“Overdose?” she echoed, quieter now. “But… how?”
Sophia’s gaze flickered, just briefly, before she forced a reassuring smile.
“You’ve been under a lot of stress lately,” she said, smoothing the blanket near Edith’s arm. “Sometimes the body reacts in ways we don’t expect.”
A faint unease settled in her chest, slow and creeping.
“I’ll go call the nurse,” Sophia added quickly, stepping back as if needing an excuse to leave. “They should check on you now that you’re awake.”
Edith nodded slightly, though her attention had already begun to drift inward.
Sophia lingered for a moment longer—her gaze softening once more as she looked at her daughter—before turning and walking out of the room, the door closing quietly behind her.
Edith turned her head slowly, staring at the ceiling again. Her thoughts felt… fractured. Pieces missing. Like a story with entire pages torn out.
“Why can’t I remember anything…” she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible. “The last thing I remember… I was having dinner with Father.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force something—anything—to come back.
Her gaze drifted, unsettled.
“What did I miss?”
- Writer
