Chapter 7

Chloe's POV

Downstairs, a black Maybach sat idling outside the entrance of the building.

Taking a deep breath, I pulled open the car door and slid inside.

Before I could even settle into the seat, a hand clamped brutally around my wrist.

A piercing jolt of pain made me wince.

"Who gave you permission to wear Serena's perfume?"

Julian turned his head toward me, snarling each word, his eyes freezing cold.

My heart plummeted straight to the bottom.

He recognized it.

It felt like my wrist was about to snap. The agony left me speechless, forced to endure it in silence.

In the next breath, his fingers clamped around my jaw, violently forcing my face upward.

"Chloe Sinclair, did everything I said go in one ear and out the other?"

"Remember this: Serena is Serena, and you are nothing but an imposter. No matter how much you look like her, you will never be her."

I had heard the word "imposter" before, but hearing it again still cut like a blade.

"Let me ask you," Julian said, his eyes drilling into mine. "Why did Serena die in that fire? Don't you feel even a shred of guilt?"

I shuddered violently.

"If you didn't have a face identical to Serena's..." He leaned in closer, slowly tightening his grip on my jaw. "...do you really think you would still be breathing right now?"

I was stunned.

"What... do you mean?"

I wondered if I had misheard him.

Was he implying that Serena's death had been caused by me, Chloe Sinclair?

Julian let out a cold sneer.

"Chloe Sinclair is a good-for-nothing delinquent—smoking, drinking, clubbing. Who in all of Los Angeles doesn't know that?"

"Then explain to me: why were you at Serena's art studio the night of the fire?"

"You don't even know how to paint. What were you doing there?"

"Serena was preparing for her exhibition, so busy she slept in the studio every single day, and nothing ever happened. The moment you showed up, the whole place went up in flames."

With every word he uttered, the pressure of his grip intensified.

"The fire department's report clearly states that besides Serena's fingerprints, yours were on the accelerant!"

"Chloe Sinclair, what else do you have to say for yourself?"

A tomb-like silence settled over the car.

My fists clenched tightly, my shoulders trembling uncontrollably.

Every single word carved into my heart like a dagger.

Yes, I was a good-for-nothing who partied and clubbed. My reputation was completely in the gutter, and everyone in Los Angeles knew it.

Back then, I thought none of it mattered.

In the eyes of the world, I was a waste; in the eyes of Arthur Sinclair and Evelyn Sinclair, I was practically invisible.

What did a good or bad reputation matter to me?

As long as Arthur Sinclair, Evelyn Sinclair, and Serena were happy, it was the least I could do for them.

Yet I never imagined this day would come.

All my past missteps had been dragged into the light by Julian Vance, weaponized into undeniable proof of my guilt, leaving me utterly defenseless.

Even I couldn't find a reason to refute him.

I closed my eyes.

Whatever was churning violently in my chest, I forced it down with raw will.

Slowly unclenching my fists, I tilted my head up and met Julian's gaze.

"I used those materials," I said. "I never told you I set a fire. Those are different things."

The material had been mine. I had used it while painting, and its presence did not explain how the room caught fire.

That night, my mood had been rock bottom. After taking my medication, everything became a blur.

By the time I opened my eyes, I was already in the hospital.

What happened in between, even I couldn't explain.

I had not seen the complete report. I had heard Julian describe it, and he had already decided what every detail meant.

Regardless, Serena was dead.

Any excuse or explanation was too late now, and entirely pointless.

Julian stared at me, his gaze dark and unreadable.

The tension in his fingers eased, but he didn't pull away. Instead, his hand slid down to my throat.

His palm rested against the slender, pale column of my neck, slowly tracing the skin.

I froze, not daring to move a muscle.

The silence inside the car was suffocating.

That hand lingered at my neck, making no further move for what felt like an eternity.

I half-expected his fingers to tighten in the next second and strangle the life out of me.

I didn't pull away.

If this was how I could atone, then let him choke me.

"Chloe Sinclair," Julian finally spoke after a long time. "I truly want nothing more than to strangle you right here."

With that, his hand fell away from my neck.

He straightened his posture and signaled the driver to move, as if nothing had just occurred.

I slumped against the seat, my face as pale as parchment.

That hadn't been an idle threat.

He had genuinely contemplated it.

And as for why he had held back, I knew the reason all too well.

I wasn't delusional enough to think he felt even an ounce of affection for me.

He simply needed me.

He needed me to carry Serena Sinclair's name and exist before the eyes of the world.

He wanted his Serena to remain dazzling and alive in this mortal world.

While the disgraced Chloe Sinclair belonged quietly buried beneath that cold grave.

That was all there was to it.

Silence reigned for the rest of the drive until the car pulled into the underground garage of the Mirage.

The Mirage was Los Angeles's most exclusive private club; ordinary people couldn't even find the door, and anyone walking through its halls was either impossibly wealthy or wielded serious power.

Tonight's charity auction was hosted here.

When the car came to a stop, Julian got out first, walked around to my side, and offered his arm.

In front of outsiders, we were a devoted engaged couple. The act had to be flawless.

Hesitating for a moment, I hooked my hand through the crook of his arm, unaccustomed to the gesture.

Through the suit fabric, I could feel the warmth of his arm.

The very same arm that had pinned my throat just moments ago.

Side by side, we walked toward the venue, looking like an enviable, picture-perfect match.

Just before the entrance, Julian leaned close to my ear.

"Remember, your every word and gesture represents Serena."

His warm breath brushed against my ear, yet his words were frigid.

I closed my eyes.

"I am Serena Sinclair," I chanted silently over and over.

"I am the dazzling, beloved Serena Sinclair."

The grand doors swung open before us. A sea of glittering chandeliers, haute couture, and mingling scents of fine perfume rushed forward.

Countless eyes turned our way.

Balancing awkwardly on my unfamiliar stilettos, I straightened my spine and lifted my chin, doing everything I could to summon the aura that belonged to Serena Sinclair.

I glanced subtly at the handsome side profile of the man beside me.

The lighting cast clean shadows across his chiseled features—distinguished, aloof, entirely out of reach.

At the threshold, I remembered another entrance, years earlier, when I had waited outside a school hall with a painting wrapped in newspaper.

Serena was inside, winning a prize. My mother had asked me to bring the extra canvas because a display panel needed filling. I had arrived too late to hear the speech, but not too late to help take the work home.

Julian had passed me by the doors. He looked at the parcel and asked whether it was heavy.

I shook my head.

It had been heavy for the entire walk from the bus stop. I did not know why I lied, except that being easy to have around seemed safer than asking someone to stop.

He went inside. I stood there until the applause finished.

Now his arm was beneath my hand and every face in the room turned toward us. I had finally crossed a threshold beside him, wearing the name of the person who had always been welcome first.

It did not feel like arriving.

An attendant offered the auction catalogue. I took it because it gave me something to hold. Julian glanced at the cover and said I would not need it.

"I'd like to look," I said.

He was already greeting a guest and did not answer.

I opened the booklet at random, then found the final lot. The small reproduction showed a painting I knew better than any room in this building.

Serena had called it Homecoming.

That had not been my first title.

My phone vibrated inside the bag. I turned slightly away from the guests and read Mara's reply.

[We have an early installation photograph showing part of the study before the canvas was reframed. It may help us compare the versions, but I need to ask you something first.]

Below it was the detail she had enlarged: a woman's hand, the handle of a suitcase, the faint line where I had painted a tree over her shoulder.

[Why did you remove this figure?]

I looked up at the painting in the catalogue. Then at Julian, smiling at someone who called me by my sister's name.

For a month, people had asked me to rest, to be quiet, to behave as Serena would. No one had asked about a choice I had made while I was still Chloe.

My fingers hovered over the screen.

I remembered what I had called the painting before Serena changed it.

Leaving.

"Who are you writing to?" Julian asked beside me.

[Paywall]