I was only eight the first time I entered the Reyes estate, my small hand gripping the edge of my mother’s dress.
My mother had known Lorenzo Reyes—the twins’ father—for years. They had been close friends, and whenever life became too overwhelming for her, Lorenzo would show up at our little apartment with gifts and quiet kindness, making sure we were okay.
Then my mother died.
The pain of my father’s betrayal, mixed with years of depression, finally became too much for her to bear. After that, Lorenzo stepped in without hesitation. He brought me into the Reyes family home—not through legal papers, but through compassion that felt stronger than any formal adoption ever could.
The moment I arrived, two boys came racing down the staircase, their identical faces bright with curiosity.
Ethan and Mason.
They became my very first true friends.
We spent endless afternoons in the gardens, running around the fountains until sunset and building blanket forts in the oversized playroom. Whenever I felt cold, they would compete over whose jacket I should wear.
Ethan would quietly place his over my shoulders with that gentle smile of his.
Mason would pretend to be annoyed, grumbling under his breath, but in the end, he always offered his too.
At night, when grief for my mother left me crying in bed, they would sneak into my room together—one bringing me a glass of water, the other cracking silly jokes until I smiled again.
They looked after me with a tenderness so fierce it was almost possessive, as if my pain tied me to them somehow.
But everything changed once we got to high school.
The two boys who used to hold my hands had become young men—broader shoulders, deeper voices, sharper features. And the way they looked at me had changed too.
Ethan grew softer with me, more attentive. He waited outside my classroom, carried my books, and always walked on the side nearest the road. He was dependable, kind, and steady—the kind of person who made you feel safe.
Mason was the opposite.
He was intense, moody, and quick to anger. If another boy looked at me too long, Mason would pick a fight. He would pull me away from crowds, hover close, and glare at Ethan whenever I laughed with him.
The tension between the brothers grew worse with time.
I remember one night more clearly than any other.
We were seventeen, standing behind the old toolshed, when Ethan reached for my hand for the first time.
I let him.
Mason saw us.
“So that’s it?” Mason snapped, his fists tightening at his sides. “You choose him? Of course you do. Perfect Ethan. The golden son.”
“Mason, please stop,” I said, trying to calm him.
But he shoved Ethan.
Ethan shoved back.
Then suddenly they were fighting—shouting, swinging at each other, years of resentment erupting right in front of me.
Mason had always been treated like the problem child.
He skipped classes, got into trouble, stayed out too late.
Ethan, meanwhile, was everything the family wanted—obedient, disciplined, the obvious heir.
Even Lorenzo would say it openly.
“Mason needs to straighten out. Ethan is the one who can lead this family.”
Mason had lived under that comparison his whole life.
And maybe that was why he wanted me—because Ethan did.
But I never loved Mason that way.
My heart had always belonged to Ethan.
After that night behind the shed, Mason shut me out completely. He avoided me, refused to speak to me, wouldn’t even meet my eyes.
Then, six years ago, there was the yacht accident.
Mason died.
Or at least, that was what everyone told me.
I mourned him for weeks—not because I had been in love with him, but because he had been part of my childhood, part of my home, part of my family.
I blamed myself for choosing between them, for being the reason they became strangers.
And now—
He was alive.
Alive, living as Ethan.
Sleeping in my bed.
Taking over my life.
My thoughts were spinning so wildly I didn’t realize I was trembling until I heard one of the men outside ask,
“Where is she, anyway? Shouldn’t she be here by now?”
I jolted.
I couldn’t face either of them—not yet.
So I hurried down the hall, forcing myself to breathe as I rushed back to my room.
The moment I got inside, I shut the door and leaned against it, pressing shaking fingers to my mouth.
Act normal.
Pretend nothing happened.
Pretend you heard nothing.
I straightened my dress, fixed my hair, and bit the inside of my lip until I tasted blood.
Then came a knock.
Before I could respond, the door opened.
Mason.
Not Ethan.
Mason.
He walked in with the same confident stride I had once mistaken for Ethan’s, but now I saw the difference so clearly.
He stepped closer, cupped my face, and kissed me before I could pull away.
“Hey, love,” he murmured against my lips. “What’s taking so long? I want you with me tonight. I’ve got a surprise for you, and you’re going to love it.”
I forced a smile, pretending to relax into his touch while praying he wouldn’t notice how rigid I was.
“A surprise?” I asked quietly.
He smiled and brushed his thumb over my lip.
“Yeah. But you need to come outside first.”
I nodded, pretending everything was normal.
When we walked back onto the patio, music drifted through the air, the garden lights glowed warmly, and the guests applauded as Lorenzo prepared to speak.
Then the crowd shifted.
And the man I had once believed was my husband—the real Ethan—stepped toward me with a cautious smile.
“Hello,” he said gently, offering his hand. “I’m Mason. I’m alive. Someone saved me after the accident. I’m sorry for disappearing.”
The lie hit me like a slap.
He was pretending to be Mason for my benefit—for the sake of preserving the twisted lie his brother had built.
I lowered my head, my voice shaking as I played along.
“I’m sorry too… for how things were before. I hope we can start over.”
He looked like he wanted to say more, but another voice interrupted.
“Hey, stepsis!”
Chloe.
She wrapped her arms around me as if we were close, as if her mother hadn’t destroyed my family.
I gave her a tight smile.
“Hi, Chloe. I didn’t know you were coming.”
The real Ethan—still pretending to be Mason—smiled and said, “Actually, we have news too. Chloe and I are getting married. We’re all going to be one happy family.”
“Wonderful,” I said flatly.
After that, the evening passed in a blur.
Music.
Conversations.
Laughter that felt miles away.
I moved through it all like a ghost while the lies swirled around me.
Later, while everyone danced beneath the dim lights, I felt a hand slide around my waist.
Then lips pressed hard against mine.
The kiss was familiar.
And wrong.
I knew immediately who it was.
“Hey, love,” Mason whispered. “Why don’t we go upstairs? We could be alone—”
His hand moved lower.
I shoved him away with all my strength, nearly making him lose his footing.
My pulse pounded violently as I stared at him.
“Don’t touch me, Mason,” I snapped. “Leave me alone.”
