Mistaken Identities

The devil incarnate

Olivia's POV

The silence of the car is broken only by the hum of the engine, a sinister lullaby as the city lights blur past the windows. My breath hitches, tears streaming down my face as I struggle to contain the panic clawing at my throat. The cold leather seat beneath me offers no comfort, the soft texture mocking my plight.

"This isn't happening," I whisper to myself, my voice trembling. Right before my eyes, my life has been stamped upon, leaving me feeling utterly helpless. Her own parents couldn't recognize her, their fear of the man beside me mirroring my own terror.

Who is this man?

A devil incarnate?

My body shakes with extreme fear. A sob escapes my lips, and before I know it, I'm crying loudly. The tears are strangely satisfying, grounding me in the brutal reality that I'm in a huge mess—not just kidn*pped, but about to be married off to this evil man by morning.

‘I can't seem to think of anything else to say to him to convince him that I am not her,’ I think, frustration bubbling inside me. ‘Is he blind? Is he stupid to have mistaken me for her? Is this how obsessed he is with her that he would do anything to satisfy his stupid ego?’

The plush leather of the car's seat isn't going to console me as I sink deeper into it. I hate him. Right now, I wish I could be courageous enough to pierce my fingers into his skin or fire a gun at him.

"I hate him," I whisper fiercely, my tears increasing at the realization that crying and hating a man who sits next to me, unmoved by my tears, is all I can do. I can't stand up to him. I can't escape from the prison he's taking me back to.

‘Should I just agree? Tell him that I am Andre so he can let me off the hook?’ I wonder, but quickly dismiss the thought.

Agreeing to all of this bullshit wouldn't help a bit. He's so mad because he thinks I am her, so admitting to his stupid assumptions won't help. It will only worsen the situation.

"What should I do?" I ask myself as I cry into my palms, tasting my salty tears and wishing a miracle would happen so I could go back to my real life. "Why is all of this happening to me? Is this because I was desperately wishing and praying for a change in my life's pattern?"

I knew I was tired of living that impoverished life as a cleaner, where men ogled and flirted with me, and I still struggled to pay my bills. I wished for a change, but this was definitely not what I wanted.

‘Right now, I would choose being that cleaner again rather than being here with a devil's incarnate who cares less about my feelings,’ I think bitterly. ‘Someone who doesn't give a damn if I cry myself to death or not. Apparently, he is heartless and deranged.’

As I continue to sob, an idea suddenly hits me. ‘Should I tell him to go with me to Chicago to make findings about me? I've stayed there all my life. He could investigate or question my neighbor and boss about me. Maybe it will help. Yes, it can help, but I know he would never listen to me.’

The thought tickles my nerves, and I wail, feeling hurt like I've been inflicted with physical pain.

"Will you shut the f**k up?!" he barks angrily beside me.

I drop my palms, uncaring about my tear-streaked face, and stare at him. "No, I won't," I snapped back at him waspishly.

He looks shocked at my outburst, but then his expression morphs into a sardonic smile. It’s a smile that makes me feel like he was expecting this reaction from me, like he was doing all of this to break me.

"I told you I am not her. What else do you want me to do to prove that?" I ask, my voice surprisingly calm despite my rage.

He doesn’t answer, so I continue to weep. "I am not her. I am Jasmine!" I scream, sitting upright and stamping my legs on the car floor. "I have a job to go back to at home. What excuse do you want me to give to my boss for my absence? How do you expect me to pay my bills if he fires me? Why are you doing this to me?"

His silence is killing me, filling me with a deep sense of grief. "What else should I say?" I wonder, sniffing and crying some more before wiping my tears and looking out of the car window. "I hate you for doing this to me."

A scoff escapes his lips, making me turn to him. "You look smart, but you aren't smart. If you were, you would make your findings well so you wouldn't end up mistaking someone else for the woman who jilted you!" I say through gritted teeth, my will to survive fueling my anger. I meant it when I said I hated him.

Thinking my statement might touch a soft spot in him, I'm about to take my eyes off him when he grabs me instantly, his fingers digging into my neck. I struggle as my back hits the car seat, sinking into it as he tightens his grip. His cold eyes bore into mine, filled with unreadable emotions. His breath fans my face, making me shut my eyes as he grits his teeth and rasps out, "Don't you dare speak back at me that way ever again. You lost that right the moment you fled to God knows where like a coward!"

He doesn't believe anything I've said. Even though I'm tempted to scream and tell him again that I'm not Isabella, I can't breathe. His fingers enclose around my neck tightly, and I feel a shock run through me, thinking he really wants to kill me. I close my eyes, waiting for the cold hands of death to claim me, but instead, he releases me. I collapse, hacking a cough and taking in as much air as I can.

He sits back beside me, adjusting his jacket and picking up his phone to continue what he was doing before my tears interrupted. Grateful to be alive, I continue to cry. He will never believe me. It is better to accept my fate, keep mute, and let him do whatever he wants with me. But I will find Isabella Marino, the real woman who was supposed to be married to this jerk but ran away like a coward. I will make her pay for this.