Chapter 2

Chloe's POV

When I stepped out after changing into the mourning attire, Julian was already waiting outside the room.

Keeping my head down, I followed him into the car.

The ride was utterly silent. The driver focused on the road, while Julian rested his eyes against the back seat, never glancing at me again.

He didn't even bother to offer an explanation.

And I didn't dare to ask.

Julian had always been a man of absolute authority, icy and unyielding. In his presence, I had never dared to breathe too loudly.

Sitting on the opposite side, I gripped my seatbelt tightly, fixing my gaze on the window.

The streetscape rushed past in a blur. My mind was entirely consumed by memories of the fire in the studio and the horrific reality that Serena was gone.

The car drove out of the city and entered Silent Vale Cemetery, an upscale burial ground nestled halfway up the mountain.

Once the car came to a stop, Julian stepped out without looking back. I hurried to catch up.

From a distance, I saw a dense crowd of mourners dressed in black.

The person they had gathered to mourn was me.

The sheer absurdity of the thought made me dizzy. Walking with my head bowed and my mind drifting, I bumped right into Julian's back.

Stumbling back, I looked up directly into his cold face.

"Remember," Julian said, looking down at me. "From now on, you are Serena Sinclair, my fiancée."

The word "fiancée" struck my ears, sending my heart racing unpredictably.

Before I could compose myself, he seized my arm and pulled me in front of him.

Julian raised a hand, pointing not far away. "And Chloe Sinclair lives over there."

I followed his gaze.

A brand-new gravestone stood on the slope, the person in the black-and-white funerary portrait smiling serenely.

The face in the portrait was mine.

A violent jolt tore through my chest.

I desperately wanted to ask Julian: Why force me to live under Serena's identity?

Why couldn't I just be myself and let the truth be known?

The questions rushed to the tip of my tongue, but though my mouth parted, I couldn't utter a single sound.

Julian let go of me and walked straight toward the burial site.

I wiped my face, holding back the tears and the chaotic storm in my mind, and followed him.

White chrysanthemums were piled in front of the grave.

Carved onto the headstone were the name Chloe Sinclair and her dates of birth and death, signed by Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair.

Yet the person lying beneath was actually Serena.

Standing before the monument, I still couldn't accept that Serena was dead.

Only yesterday afternoon, she had stood right before me—flawlessly made up, her dress immaculate, captivating even in her anger.

Today, she was reduced to a handful of ashes behind stone.

Growing up, I had never experienced much familial warmth.

The only affection I ever received came from Serena.

When Arthur Sinclair and Evelyn Sinclair scolded me, Serena would speak up in my defense.

Whenever there was delicious food, Serena always remembered to save a portion for me.

My body trembled, my eyes burning as I forced my head up to swallow back the tears.

I hated that fire.

And I hated myself even more for sleeping so heavily that day, completely unaware that flames had erupted.

If only I had woken up sooner, would Serena still be alive?

The pastor stepped forward to conduct the service.

"The departed has moved on. May everyone find comfort in this time of sorrow."

The pastor closed his book.

"Now, will the family and close friends please step forward to bid their final farewell."

No one moved.

The guests exchanged glances, whispering among themselves, but not a single person stepped forward.

The pastor waited a moment, visibly uncomfortable.

"Does anyone wish to say a few words to the departed?"

Still, there was no response.

Left with no choice, the pastor turned to Arthur Sinclair and Evelyn Sinclair in the front row.

"Do the two of you have any final words for your daughter?"

Evelyn Sinclair kept her eyes lowered, nudging her husband with her elbow.

Arthur Sinclair cleared his throat twice and shook his head at the pastor.

A silent declaration that they had nothing to say.

My father had once driven three hours to hear Serena play a piano piece that lasted six minutes. He complained about the traffic afterward, but he kept the printed program in his desk.

I knew because I had borrowed a stapler from that drawer years later and found it folded inside a plastic sleeve.

I had searched the other papers, although there was no reason to. I knew what was there and what was not. Still, I had moved one envelope after another, hoping something I had forgotten might turn up.

At the grave, I watched his hands. They were folded in front of him, the fingers loose.

I wanted one of them to move toward the stone. Not a speech. Not the love I had spent years asking for in ways too small to name. Just an awkward touch, something he had not planned, something that would mean the name in front of him belonged to a child he remembered.

He checked his watch.

Beside the grave stood a wreath from Serena's gallery. Its card thanked her for bringing beauty into the world. The photograph attached to the ribbon showed the painting I had finished in our studio at four in the morning.

I had tied a ribbon around that frame before the exhibition because Serena said the gold made the blue look warmer. I remembered the adhesive clinging to my fingers.

The picture on the wreath was bright enough to recognize from several feet away. The name on the stone beneath it seemed harder to understand.

A chill swept through me, sinking straight into my bones.

I looked at the surrounding guests, then at Arthur Sinclair and Evelyn Sinclair.

At their own flesh-and-blood daughter's funeral, they weren't even willing to offer a single word of farewell.

My chest felt as though it had been sliced open with a blade, the agony making me shake.

All the accumulated hurt and rage detonated inside me. I charged straight up to Arthur Sinclair and Evelyn Sinclair.

"Why?"

My eyes were bloodshot as I demanded, "Isn't the person lying in there your daughter? Why don't you have a single word for your final farewell?"

Arthur Sinclair and Evelyn Sinclair froze in shock.

The guests around us turned to stare in unison.

Pointing at the gravestone, my tears fell uncontrollably.

"Is Serena Sinclair the only daughter you care about? Does Chloe Sinclair not—"

Before I could finish, a hand clamped brutally over my mouth from behind.

Julian dragged me back by force.

I struggled frantically, wanting to scream for him to let me go.

I just wanted an explanation. Even if they lied to me, even if they just uttered a token phrase of grief, it would have been enough.

All these years, I had tried so desperately to please Arthur Sinclair and Evelyn Sinclair.

Whatever they told me to do, I agreed without hesitation.

Was this cold cruelty all I received in return?

"Be quiet," Julian warned, leaning against my ear. "Don't you dare slip up."

I instantly froze.

It felt like a hand had closed around my throat, draining every ounce of my strength to fight.

To him, my pain was utterly worthless. I didn't even have the right to question my parents.

Seeing that I had stopped struggling, Julian released his grip and draped an arm around my shoulder, turning toward the crowd.

"Hearing the news of her sister's death was a severe shock to Serena. She is emotionally unstable right now. Please don't take it to heart."

The moment those words were spoken, the doubt and suspicion vanished from the guests' faces, replaced by relief and sympathy.

"Understandable. Losing her own twin sister... who could handle that?"

"The two sisters truly shared a deep bond."

I closed my eyes, tears tracking down my cheeks.

It was also in this moment that another realization dawned on me.

Everyone present believed that Chloe Sinclair was the one in the grave.

Yet looking around, the crowd consisted solely of Sinclair family associates and Serena's friends from the art world. There wasn't a single friend of Chloe Sinclair.

I didn't have many friends, but I had true ones.

Maxine Cole and I had been inseparable for over a decade. She frequently visited our house during the holidays, and Arthur Sinclair and Evelyn Sinclair had met her countless times.

They clearly knew her, yet neither of them had bothered to inform Maxine.

In their eyes, even my funeral wasn't worth the slight effort of notifying my friends.

The chill crawled from the soles of my feet straight to my chest.

So, a person's death could be disposed of with such careless disregard.

When the funeral ended, the guests began to disperse.

Julian walked ahead, and I followed in silence.

As we passed a cluster of bushes, snippets of conversation drifted from behind us.

"Honestly, Miss Sinclair was remarkably good to that sister of hers. Even though the girl was a slacker who smoked, drank, and partied, Miss Sinclair always protected her."

"Indeed. I heard that on the day of the fire, the younger Miss Sinclair went to the studio to cause trouble and completely ruined the paintings Miss Sinclair had prepared for the exhibition. That collection took over half a year to prepare. What a waste."

"Ruining the art was bad enough, but starting a fire? It didn't matter if she died, but she nearly dragged Serena down with her. Good for nothing, a complete liability."

"If she hadn't started trouble, would the studio have burned down? To put it bluntly, she brought it on herself."

"Thank goodness Miss Sinclair survived. If anything had happened to her, the art world would have lost a true genius."

"The one who suffered the most must be Mr. Vance. His fiancée was almost taken from him. I heard he kept vigil at the hospital all night."

Listening to them, a bitter sting spread through my chest.

The voices gradually faded into the distance.

I stood frozen, the color drained from my face.

I understood everything now.

In the eyes of the world, Chloe Sinclair was the reckless troublemaker who caused the fire.

I had ruined Serena's paintings, torched the studio, and nearly killed a brilliant artist.

If the truth came out, everyone would learn that the prodigy with a boundless future was the one who died, while the troublemaker had survived.

The Sinclair family could never accept such an outcome, and Julian Vance certainly couldn't.

That was why he forced me to live on as Serena Sinclair.

He wanted Chloe Sinclair to die under a cloud of disgrace, allowing Serena to continue living in glory.

This, perhaps, was his punishment for me.

A punishment for taking the life of the woman he loved.

I clenched my fists, my chest so tight I could barely breathe.

Yet I didn't even have the right to defend myself.

The old explanation came easily: if I had agreed to keep painting, perhaps Serena would have gone home happy. Perhaps I would not have taken the pill. Perhaps someone would have noticed the smoke sooner.

Each thought began with something I could have done differently. None reached the part I could not remember.

Julian was walking ahead. I watched the back of his coat and tried to summon the courage to ask one question.

Had she called for me?

It was a terrible question. If he said yes, I would hear it every night. If he said no, I would have to imagine the silence.

Before I could speak, my mother came down the path. She stopped beside me and straightened the collar of the black dress.

For an instant, I leaned toward her.

She used to do that before Serena's school performances: smooth a ribbon, brush a speck from a sleeve, turn a face toward the light. I had watched from doorways so often that my body recognized the gesture before I understood whose collar she thought she was fixing.

"You mustn't upset yourself like that," she said. "There are people watching."

Her fingers rested briefly beneath my chin.

"I know," I whispered.

She had not asked why I cried. She had not said my name.

When she moved away, I could still feel the warmth of her hand. It made the next few steps harder, not easier.

Near the gate, a ribbon had come loose from one of the wreaths. I caught it before it dragged through the mud. The gallery card was attached, the small photograph of the painting creased at one corner.

I took a picture of it with my phone. I did not know why I wanted to keep another record of this day. Perhaps because everyone else seemed so ready for it to be over.

Behind us, a worker began collecting the empty flower boxes.

I looked back once. My photograph remained on the stone. The real person in it had to hurry to keep up with the man waiting at the end of the path.