Mistaken Identities

THE HAIR

Angelo's POV

Confusion clouds my mind as I stare at the woman beneath me, her white hair stark against the soft, cream-colored pillow. Isabella doesn't have white hair; she's blonde. The sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains bathes the room in a gentle glow, casting a soft light on her hair and making it appear almost ethereal.

Where the hell did she get this hair color from?

She's still struggling to cover her hair with the wig when I stop her, my hand firmly on her, locking her to the bed while I sit above her. My brows furrow in wonderment. The bed's plush mattress dips under my weight, the soft sheets rustling with our movements.

Is this part of her trick to throw me off the track? When I first saw her in California, I was certain she had changed her hair color. I thought she had dyed her blonde hair black to avoid recognition, but I knew it was her.

But seeing that the black hair is just a wig and her real hair is white makes me even more puzzled. The contrast is jarring, the black wig lying discarded on the bed, its synthetic strands glaringly fake against the natural texture of her white hair.

I know Isabella can go to any length to get what she wants. She wants to escape my wrath forever, but I won't let that happen. The room feels charged with tension, the air heavy with the unspoken words between us.

Now that she is here, I won't let her slip away like I once allowed. I am going to make life a living hell for her, not only because she humiliated me but also because she keeps lying and pretending to be someone else. My grip tightens on her wrist, the warmth of her skin under my fingers a stark reminder of the physicality of our confrontation.

Olivia, my foot!

How did she know that we are back in New York? She claimed never to have been in New York, but she quickly figured out that we left California for New York.

I am not a dumbass!

Every other piece of evidence points to the fact that she is Isabella, not some random Olivia. She has that tattoo, she has the same face, so what else do I need to be sure it's her?

Nothing.

I don't need any more evidence. She is Isabella, and I won't let her deceive me. The scent of her lavender shampoo lingers in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of fresh linens, creating an oddly domestic scene despite the tension.

A knock resounds outside the door, jerking me out of my reverie. I stepped down from the bed quickly, my gaze riveted to her strange hair.

I've never seen anyone with white hair before. I wonder how she did this. The light from the hallway spills into the room as the door opens, casting long shadows across the floor.

Before the door can open, she sits upright in bed and quickly puts on the wig to hide her white hair.

The door opens and two maids come in. I turn to them, and they bow. One of them is holding a tray of food, the smell of fresh croissants and coffee wafting into the room. The other maid carries a bundle of clothes, neatly folded and smelling faintly of detergent and fabric softener.

I called her parents last night to tell them that I have a surprise for them. I intended to take her to her parents' mansion today, but now I feel like making it some other day. The thought of seeing their reaction brings a smirk to my lips.

I take one last look at her and brush past the maids to take the exit out, my mind jumbled and filled with questions.

Is this really Isabella? Why has she suddenly turned meek like a dove? Why does she look nervous all the time? Why does she have white hair instead of blonde? The questions swirl in my mind as I walk down the corridor, the sound of my footsteps echoing off the marble floors.

I ignore the greetings of the maids I pass on my way to the bar. I don't understand what is happening, and I need answers as soon as possible. The scent of polished wood and leather fills the air as I enter the bar, the dim lighting casting a warm, intimate glow over the room.

As soon as I get to the bar, I pull out a stool and grab a bottle of wine when an idea strikes me. The cool glass of the bottle feels smooth under my fingers, the deep red liquid sloshing gently inside.

I drop the bottle and stand up, fishing out my phone from my pants pocket. I'm wearing black pants and a T-shirt, the fabric soft and comfortable against my skin.

I dial Mr. Marino's number instantly, my mind drifting back to how our story started. The phone rings, the sound sharp and intrusive in the quiet room.

Mr. Marino is a business partner. He used to be one of the shareholders in my father's company, and he had the lowest shares.

His daughter, Isabella, is blonde-haired. We met at a party, and it wasn't a pleasant encounter. She poured her wine on me and humiliated me. She was rude and abusive, and I vowed to deal with her. The memory of her smug smile as she walked away still stings.

She didn't know who I was, but even after she found out I was one of the youngest billionaires in the city and involved in the Mafia, that didn't stop her from insulting me each time our paths crossed.

As fate would have it, she was Mr. Marino's only daughter. Her father needed my help, and I took advantage of him. I struck a deal with him, and he agreed without a second thought. The terms of our agreement replay in my mind, a reminder of the power dynamics at play.

I wanted Isabella to be my wife, but she resisted. I made her father do the talking. I don't know how he did it, but he made me believe he was the one who persuaded her to agree to marry me.

All I wanted was revenge for the humiliation, but what I got was more humiliation.

"Angelo?" His loud voice pulls me out of my thoughts. "How are you, son?" His voice crackles slightly over the phone, a mixture of concern and curiosity.

"Is Isabella a twin?!" I demand impatiently. This can be the only explanation for the striking resemblances and the few differences. The silence on the other end of the line stretches, each second feeling like an eternity.

Apart from this, there's nothing more to say. Being a twin is the only thing that can convince me that this white-haired woman is not Isabella.

"What? A twin? Of course not," he answers quietly and falls silent, then gasps. "Have you seen her? Have you found my baby?" His voice trembles with a mix of hope and desperation.

When Isabella went missing, I was certain her parents were hiding her. But after placing them under surveillance for two weeks, it became clear they had no idea of her whereabouts either.

We've been searching for her for eleven months. Anytime we find her, she manages to slip away like a thief in the night. The frustration of those near-misses burns fresh in my mind.

We found her twice.

Once in America and once in London.

"I haven't found her. I will visit you tonight."

"Angelo, are you—"

I cut him off by hanging up. That answers it. Isabella isn't a twin, but the puzzle isn't solved yet.

This white-haired woman is either related to Isabella or is Isabella herself. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that this woman is Isabella and she's just pretending.

But I want to give her the benefit of the doubt.

If she isn't Isabella, then Isabella will come out from wherever she's hiding to save her look-alike if she has a conscience at all.

If this is Isabella, she deserves punishment for the humiliation she caused me and my family.

I don't care if anyone gets hurt in the process. My ego was bruised, and it needs to be healed.

The same thing she ran away from is what she's come back to. She's going to go through with this till the very end.

I don't care who she is. All I know is that this woman under my roof is Isabella, the woman who ran away and left me standing at the aisle on our wedding day.

I stand up abruptly, dropping my phone on the bar counter before taking long strides back to her room. The hallway seems to stretch endlessly, each step echoing with determination.

I don't have a conscience anymore. People don't step on my toes because I don't forgive easily.

Isabella didn't offend me once or twice. She deserves whatever comes her way.

We are still going to visit Mr. Marino. He needs to identify her, but I don't really care whether they tell me she's Isabella or not. They would want to protect her from me. I just want to do that out of courtesy.

The door to her room opens before I get close, and the two maids come out. I ignore them and enter the room, slamming the door shut to announce my presence.

She's sitting on the edge of the bed with her head bowed. She lifts her head as soon as I slam the door, and our eyes interlock. Her eyes are wide, reflecting a mix of fear and defiance.

"Get ready. We are visiting your parents in an hour, and we are getting married at the registry tomorrow."

She looks confused for a moment, as if trying to process my words. Her lips part slightly, her breathing quickening. Suddenly, she exclaims loudly, "No!"

She shakes her head repeatedly, pleading with her eyes as she sinks to the floor in despair. The soft carpet muffles her movements, creating a surreal silence around her protests.

I whirl around and leave the room with a big smile on my face. The sound of the door closing behind me is a satisfying punctuation to her futile resistance.