Chapter 2

I couldn't stay in that restaurant any longer, couldn't continue having dinner beneath that "heartwarming" birthday party on the top floor.

This was Adrian's humiliation of me.

He was so brazen, so certain I would never find out.

Damn.

I called a car and went straight home—after that accident six years ago, I still couldn't bring myself to drive.

The whole way, my mind replayed what I'd just witnessed: that face identical to mine but without the scar, Adrian's kiss on her lips, and the little boy who'd called me "Scarface Lady"—Adrian's son.

The neon lights outside the car window flashed past, much like my shattered thoughts at that moment.

I needed evidence.

If Adrian had really kept me as a "stand-in" for six years, there had to be traces, records, secrets he thought he'd hidden well.

And I would find every single one.

When the car stopped at the villa gates, the entire house was shrouded in darkness.

The butler and servants had all been given the night off—because we were supposed to be celebrating our "anniversary" at the restaurant.

How ironic.

I pushed open the door without turning on the lights. Using the moonlight streaming through the windows, I walked directly to Adrian's study on the second floor.

This was his private domain—in six years, I'd never been allowed near it.

"My workspace requires absolute quiet and privacy," he'd said, firm and brooking no refusal.

I'd believed him.

Just as I'd believed his every word, believed he'd saved me, believed he loved me.

The study door wasn't locked.

I went in, turned on my phone's flashlight, and began checking each drawer one by one.

Documents, medical journals...

All normal.

Until I pulled open the bottom drawer on the right side of the desk. My fingertips touched cold metal—a small safe pushed to the very back.

My heart rate spiked.

I dragged it out and set it on the desk.

Electronic combination lock. Six digits.

I took a deep breath and entered Adrian's birthday, then mine.

Both wrong.

I closed my eyes, my fingertip hovering over the number pad, acutely aware of what I should try next.

Our anniversary. Also the birthday Adrian had deliberately chosen for Eleanor.

A beep, just as I expected. The safe clicked open.

No time to process the piercing pain of being deceived from start to finish.

My eyes were immediately drawn to the contents of the safe.

On top was a document.

A draft Adoption Agreement. Attached were some basic information copies about Noah, with a photo showing the boy smiling innocently.

All it needed was my signature to give him a legitimate identity.

My signature was a crucial piece of their plan.

My hands began to tremble, but I didn't stop.

Beneath the agreement was a manila folder containing a stack of neatly printed documents.

I opened the first page. The title screamed at me:

Facial Reconstruction Plan—Margaret

Date recorded: January, six years ago.

January.

Back then, I didn't know Adrian. The car accident hadn't happened yet. I didn't need plastic surgery.

Could it be... before my accident... he'd already been planning to reconstruct my face?

I forced myself to keep reading.

The file contained photos, hand-drawn diagrams, and dense surgical annotations.

The photos showed me before the accident—back then I had no scar, a different bone structure than now. Higher cheekbones. A narrower chin. The curve of my eye corners slightly different.

The hand-drawn diagram showed a face marked with precise annotations.

The annotations indicated: areas requiring adjustment.

My cheekbones, my jawline, my brow bone—all circled in red pen with surgical plans and expected results written alongside.

And the final projected result looked exactly like the face I'd seen tonight.

Eleanor's face.

He hadn't been "repairing" or "saving" me.

He'd been "manufacturing" me.

Manufacturing a perfect replica of Eleanor.

A wave of violent nausea hit me, my stomach heaving.

But I gritted my teeth and kept searching.

Below the folder was a black leather journal and a dark blue photo album.

In the album, I saw Adrian, Eleanor, and their gradually growing child. A chronicle of a happy family.

My husband's happy family.

Sickening. Despicable.

I took out my phone and photographed everything.

Then I opened the journal.

The first few pages dated back to... before my car accident. They recorded scattered, deranged thoughts.

"My first love, Eleanor, is actually going to marry my brother Richard... She says it's the family's will. Just because I can't inherit the family fortune, do I have to suffer losing her? This isn't fair. Richard doesn't deserve her. But no one listens to my pleas. This family has rotted. It needs rebirth."

"I saw a woman... her profile, especially the curve of her nose and chin, bears a seventy percent resemblance to Eleanor. Unfortunately, her eye shape and cheekbones aren't right, and her bearing is far too different... But if... if I made some adjustments..."

"A bold plan is taking shape. Perhaps this is heaven's opportunity for me. A perfect substitute could temporarily soothe my pain. Once she's completely transformed into Eleanor's image and stays by 'my' side..."

"An 'accident' is needed. To destroy the parts of her face that don't resemble Eleanor. The nose, the cheekbones... This requires careful planning."

The notebook slipped from my trembling hands, hitting the carpet with a muffled thud.

My ears buzzed. That life-changing car accident—the slick road, the out-of-control car, the shattered windshield, the searing pain, the darkness...

All the fragmented details spun wildly in my mind, then were threaded together by these cold words into a truth that made my skin crawl.

It wasn't an accident. It was attempted murder. Premeditated violence.

And all just to turn me into a replica. A stand-in.

Damn you, Adrian!

Fury restored my strength. I grabbed my phone and photographed this self-documented evidence one by one, forcing myself to examine what came next.

It chronicled a twisted soul.

Eleanor was Adrian's first love, married off to his brother for family interests.

And Adrian, as the family's illegitimate son, hadn't been chosen as the heir.

Unable to bear the pain of his first love becoming his sister-in-law, he left to become a top plastic surgeon on his own.

Then I—who bore some resemblance to Eleanor—became his target for creating a stand-in.

He concealed everything while getting close to me, sculpting my face, manipulating my emotions.

Yet after his brother's "accidental" death, he quickly reunited with Eleanor, and they soon had a child—Noah, symbolizing new beginnings.

It was a relationship that couldn't see the light of day, because Eleanor had been his sister-in-law, the family's "widow."

So he needed a "wife." A "stand-in." To cover the truth while providing Noah with a legitimate identity.

And "I"—an innocent passerby who happened to resemble Eleanor—became the key piece in his perfect plan.

A stand-in wife he'd saved, sculpted, and kept like a pet. One who could temporarily satisfy his longing for Eleanor while giving Noah a legitimate, clean family background.

When the time was right, this stand-in could conveniently "exit" through an "accident."

Six years. A full six years.

I'd been living in a manufactured script. My face, my marriage, my "new life."

All of it—a crude imitation of another woman's story. A stage set built by a psychologically twisted man to satisfy his desires and serve his convenience.

What I'd believed was devotion, care, even his "tolerance" of the scar on my face—all of it was calculated performance.

He'd looked at me wearing this face while thinking of another woman, plotting how to make the most use of me as a prop before making me disappear.

Hatred.

A hatred a thousand times more intense than what I'd felt on that rooftop surged and burned in my chest.

No longer helpless rage—now it had a clear target and path.

I would tear all of this apart. In my own way.

Click.

From downstairs in the living room came the unmistakable sound of a key in the door.

Every drop of blood in my body rushed to my head, then froze the next instant.

Adrian—he was back? How could he be back so soon? Dinner "ended early"?

My body acted before my mind could catch up. I quickly put everything back in place and closed the safe.

Footsteps approaching.

Closer and closer.

He was heading toward the study.

Click.

The brass handle of the study door slowly... moved downward.