Chapter 1

The Life I Took Back

My name is Chloe Sinclair.

At twenty-four, I attended my own funeral.

They held a funeral for me, erected a gravestone, and completely erased me from this world. Meanwhile, dressed in mourning attire, I stood before my own grave, listening as my father, Arthur Sinclair, and my mother, Evelyn Sinclair, said they had "nothing to say."

Later, I lived again.

Rising from the ashes of another corpse, shining in the ripples of the Seine, and in the fleeting instant a paintbrush pressed against the thin calluses on my palm once more.

It took me over twenty years to realize one simple truth: in this world, some are born to be the light, while others are born to be the shadow.

Yet, light can grow from shadows too.

If you have ever had your name erased, your life stolen, and yourself reduced to someone else's stand-in, please remember—

Living on is the best revenge.

Chloe's POV

Fire was everywhere.

Thick smoke billowed out from behind the easel, the scorching heat searing my skin with intense pain. Covering my nose and mouth, I dashed toward the door, only to find it blocked by a collapsed, burning shelf.

I reached for my phone to call for help, but flames consumed the room, blinding me to everything.

"Serena!"

I screamed at the top of my lungs. "Serena, are you there?"

The only response was the sharp crackle of burning wood.

Smoke flooded my lungs. I doubled over, coughing violently, dark spots dancing across my vision.

Right before my consciousness sank into the void, a sharp, violent pain struck the back of my head.

"Serena! Serena!"

I bolted upright in bed, cold sweat soaking my hospital gown.

A stark white ceiling. The sharp stench of disinfectant.

A hospital.

Before I could make sense of what was happening, a bundle of black clothes was tossed onto my bed.

"Now that you're awake, put them on."

My entire body froze.

The voice was ice-cold, but I recognized it instantly. It was Julian Vance.

"Julian?"

Julian stood beside the hospital bed, dressed in a sharp suit, his profile aloof, his face devoid of emotion.

My heartbeat fluttered into chaos.

Julian was my sister Serena's fiancé, and the man I had kept hidden in the depths of my heart since childhood.

I had buried these feelings for over a decade, never daring to breathe a word to anyone.

The Vance and Sinclair families had been close for generations, making this union a natural match. The entire city was waiting for their wedding.

Meanwhile, my reputation was notoriously tarnished—a slacker, a rebel who smoked, drank, and frequented clubs. Julian undoubtedly saw me the same way. Throughout their years of engagement, he had never stayed alone in a room with me, nor had he ever spoken more than a few complete sentences to me.

Now, with just the two of us in the room, I didn't even know where to place my hands.

"You have five minutes to change."

Julian spoke.

"Change?"

I pushed myself up, a dull ache throbbing at the back of my head.

"Julian, why am I in a hospital? Where's Serena?"

Julian didn't answer. His gaze grew colder as he looked down at me.

"Four minutes left."

I had no choice but to pick up the clothes on the bed.

The moment I shook them open, the blood in my veins ran cold.

All black, solemn in design. It was mourning attire.

"Whose funeral is this for?"

My thumb was still stained blue beside the nail. Before the fire, I had spent three nights painting a sky for Serena's exhibition. She had chosen the title, approved the frame, and told the gallery it was her most personal work.

I had mixed every color.

For years, I had called that helping my sister. Yesterday, I had tried to tell her I was tired. Even now, I could remember the hurt on her face more clearly than the words I used.

Now Julian was handing me clothes for a funeral.

Julian finally looked me in the eye.

"Chloe Sinclair's."

I froze on the spot.

My funeral?

I was alive and well, sitting right here on this hospital bed.

Just as I opened my mouth to speak, my phone vibrated. A news alert popped up on the screen.

[Breaking News: A fire broke out last night at the private studio of renowned artist Serena Sinclair. Both Sinclair daughters were trapped inside. After extensive rescue efforts, the elder daughter, Serena, survived, while the younger daughter, Chloe Sinclair, tragically lost her life. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair are devastated by grief and will hold a funeral for their beloved daughter today.]

I stared at the screen, my hands trembling so violently I could barely hold the phone.

"Julian, I'm alive. What... what is going on?"

"Chloe Sinclair is dead. She died in the fire."

Julian looked down at me, like a judge delivering a sentence.

"From this day forward, only Serena Sinclair exists in this world."

A sharp buzz rang in my head, and suddenly, the meaning of his words clicked.

"Serena... What about Serena?"

Julian didn't answer. He averted his gaze.

His silence was a confirmation.

Tears welled up without warning. Words failed me completely.

The one who died was Serena.

Yesterday afternoon, Serena had come to the studio to talk to me. The conversation went poorly, ending on a bitter note.

After Serena left, my mood was terrible, so I took a pill.

As the medication kicked in, I fell asleep.

When I opened my eyes again, I was lying here.

So it wasn't a nightmare. It was real.

The studio really caught fire, and my sister, Serena... had burned to death?

It felt as if a massive boulder had slammed into my chest, the agony choking my sobs.

"Arthur Sinclair and Evelyn Sinclair also believe that you were the one who died," Julian said, as though blind to my tears.

"I don't intend to tell them the truth."

I pressed my lips together tightly.

I understood his logic.

Serena and I were twins, yet our destinies were worlds apart.

From the moment Serena was born, she smiled at everyone, melting our parents' hearts.

I, on the other hand, wailed non-stop from the moment I hit the ground, throwing the entire household into chaos.

Growing up, Serena was sweet-tongued, beautiful, and praised by all. Whenever relatives visited during the holidays, they always gathered around Serena, showering her with flattery.

As for me, even when serving tea and water, no one spared me a second glance.

The favoritism of Arthur Sinclair and Evelyn Sinclair was entirely natural.

Over the years, I had always been disposable in the Sinclair family.

Serena, however, was their pride and joy, their very lifeblood.

Letting them believe that it was Chloe Sinclair who died would allow them to heal after a brief period of grief.

If they knew it was Serena who had perished, they would never be able to bear the devastation.

I could almost hear my mother asking me to be sensible. It had always been easier to imagine what they needed than to ask why I was the one who had to give it.

And so, without even consulting me, he made the decision for everyone.

"The funeral begins at ten," Julian said, turning toward the door.

"The moment you step out of this room, you are Serena Sinclair."

Clutching the mourning attire, I watched his retreating back.

Tall, aloof, only a few steps away, yet separated from me by an impassable chasm.

The door did not quite close. I watched the strip of his white cuff disappear through the gap, then kept watching after he was gone.

When I was thirteen, I had spilled tea at a Sinclair family dinner. The stain spread across the tablecloth toward my father's sleeve. Everyone stopped talking. My mother's hand closed around my wrist beneath the table, hard enough to hurt, and I knew what she would say when the guests left.

Julian had moved his cup over the spreading stain.

"Mine," he said. "I knocked it."

He was already speaking to someone else when I looked up. I never knew whether he remembered it afterward.

For years, I did.

It was not much on which to build a feeling. When I tried to explain him to Maxine, I always left that part out. It sounded smaller aloud than it had felt to the girl sitting at the table.

Now he had put black clothes on my hospital bed and told me to wear my sister's name.

I reached for the dress. My fingers caught in the tissue paper, making a loud, brittle sound in the quiet room.

A nurse came in to remove the tray. She asked whether I had eaten. I shook my head, and she lifted the lid again as though hunger were a problem that could still be answered in an ordinary way.

"A little, if you can."

The porridge had cooled. I took one mouthful because she waited. It hurt going down.

"Is there someone you'd like us to call?"

I almost said my mother.

The answer came before thought, as naturally as reaching for something when I fell. Then I remembered the news alert. My parents were arranging Chloe Sinclair's funeral.

"They know," I said.

The nurse adjusted the spoon on the tray. Perhaps she thought I meant they knew I was hurt. I let her think it.

After she left, I opened the clear bag on the bedside table. My keys were there, an elastic hair tie, and the phone I had dropped in the studio. One corner of the case was blackened. Under it, a little square of paper had stuck to the plastic.

It was a shopping list in Serena's handwriting. She had added the tea I liked beneath the paint supplies.

I pressed the paper flat with my thumb.

That was the part no one would understand if I tried to tell them about us. Serena could take an entire painting without asking and still remember which tea I drank when I worked late. I had spent years believing the second thing explained the first.

Now I could not ask her what either meant.

I opened my photographs and found one of her at the studio window. She was laughing at something outside the frame. I had taken the picture between coats of blue, and a corner of the unfinished canvas showed behind her shoulder.

There were other pictures underneath it: the charcoal sketch, the first layer, the change she asked me to make.

I touched the screen to enlarge her face. Then I saved the group to a separate folder, not because I knew what it might prove, but because the thought of losing the last ordinary afternoon with her made it hard to breathe.

I could not stop the funeral. I could hardly make myself stand.

The dress had a row of small buttons down the back. I reached for the first one, failed, and began again.

Outside, a trolley rattled past the room. Someone laughed near the nurses' station.

I put on the mourning clothes slowly, still waiting for someone to come back and tell me there had been a mistake.