Chapter 2

Farah Moore POV:

Most people didn't know that Farah Moore wasn't my real name. It was the name I had adopted five years ago, a simpler, more ordinary name for a simpler, more ordinary life with Brandon. My real name is Aurora Valois, the sole heiress to the Valois real estate empire, a name that carried the weight of old money and immense power. I had hidden it all for him, believing our love was enough.

That night, something inside me broke. The girl who believed in fairy tales, the woman who would change herself for a man, died on that cold hotel hallway floor. In her place, a new woman was born from the ashes of betrayal.

I took a deep breath, my fingers flying across the screen as I replied to the anonymous message.

"I'm interested."

The reply was instantaneous. "Good. I'm in another city for the next two months. We can't meet in person yet. But we can start now. Are you in?"

It was a strange proposition, built on mystery and distance. But right now, mystery felt safer than the brutal truths I had just uncovered. Distance felt like a shield.

"Yes," I typed. "But on one condition."

"Name it."

"The woman you're starting this with isn't Farah Moore. She's Aurora Valois."

The pause on the other end was brief, but I could feel the surprise. "As you wish, Aurora."

That night, I didn't go home. I went to a bar, the kind of loud, crowded place Brandon always hated. I drank until the edges of my pain blurred, and then I stumbled back to the apartment I shared with a man who was not my fiancé.

Danial was waiting up for me, his face a mask of concerned affection that now made my skin crawl. "Farah, where have you been? It's so late. And you've been drinking."

He reached for me, and I flinched away, my eyes immediately dropping to his wrist. He wasn't wearing the Patek Philippe. Of course not. That was with its new owner. The detail was a small, sharp confirmation of everything I now knew.

"Don't touch me," I said, my voice colder than I intended.

He looked hurt, the perfect picture of a worried fiancé. "Baby, what's wrong?" He stepped closer, cupping my face in his hands. "You know I love your eyes the most when they're sparkling. Not when they're sad like this."

His words were a poisoned dart, a direct echo of what I'd heard Brandon say in the villa. My stomach twisted. He wanted my eyes. He was praising the very thing he planned to steal.

I endured his touch, my body rigid with repulsion. He leaned in and kissed me. It was a soft, gentle kiss, a perfect imitation of Brandon's. It felt like being kissed by a ghost, a phantom who wore the face of the man I once loved but carried the soul of a stranger. It was utterly, profanely wrong.

The moment his lips left mine, I pulled away. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

I walked to my room without looking back, feeling his confused gaze on me. I closed the door and leaned against it, my whole body trembling with a mixture of rage and disgust.

From the other side of the door, I heard him chuckle softly to himself. His act dropped the second he thought I was out of earshot. It wasn't the sound of a concerned lover. It was the low, satisfied murmur of a predator enjoying the hunt.

"This is more fun than I thought it would be," I heard him mutter.

The next morning, I threw open my closet and pushed past the rows of beige, grey, and navy blue clothes-Brandon's preferred palette. In the very back, I found what I was looking for. A vibrant, blood-red dress I hadn't worn in years. I put it on, applied the dark red lipstick he hated, and walked out of my room.

Danial was in the living room, dressed in one of Brandon's tailored suits. He looked up from his newspaper and his eyes widened.

"What are you wearing?" he asked, his brow furrowing in disapproval.

"A dress," I replied flatly.

He stood up and walked over to me, his hand reaching out to touch the silk fabric. "It's... too bright. Go change into the white one I picked out for you. We're visiting Grandpa today."

He tried to steer me toward the bedroom, his touch a gentle but firm command. The old Farah would have complied without a word.

I slapped his hand away.

"No," I said, my voice clear and steady. "I like this one."

His mask of patience slipped for a fraction of a second. A flicker of annoyance crossed his face before he smoothed it back into a placid smile. "Farah, don't be difficult."

"I said no."

We drove to the Carlson family estate in tense silence. The mansion was as grand and imposing as I remembered, a place where I had always felt like an outsider, a guest with an expiring welcome.

We had just stepped into the grand foyer when Caryl appeared at the top of the staircase, guided by a maid. She was dressed in a pristine white dress, her face pale and innocent, the bandage still wrapped around her eyes.

The moment she "heard" my voice saying hello to the butler, her face twisted into a mask of rage.

"You bitch!" she shrieked, her voice suddenly strong and sharp. "What are you doing here?"

Before I could react, she lunged. She moved with a speed and certainty that a blind person shouldn't possess, her hands finding the heavy crystal vase on a nearby table. She lifted it high and brought it crashing down on my head.

Pain exploded behind my eyes. The world swam in a dizzying haze. I stumbled back, my hand flying to my head. When I pulled it away, my fingers were slick with warm, dark blood.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I yelled, my voice shaking with shock and fury.

I started to move toward her, to defend myself, but Brandon-the real Brandon-was suddenly there. He moved like lightning, stepping between me and Caryl, his arm blocking my path.

"Farah, stop!" he commanded, his voice a blade of ice.