Mistaken Identity: Loving The Wrong Twin Sister

I replaced my twin sister in a marriage contract to the ruthless Mafia Don, Donovan Blackwood.

For three years, I was a ghost in his home, silently enduring his coldness while he flaunted his mistress, Chloe.

On the very last day of our contract, Chloe staged an accident.

Donovan didn't hesitate.

He forced me to drain my blood to save her life.

Then, to prove his loyalty to her, he drove me to the cliffs and pushed me into the freezing ocean.

He even locked me in a cellar infested with spiders-my deepest phobia-because she lied and said I threatened her.

He thought he was punishing the spoiled, arrogant Isabella.

He didn't know he was breaking Ava, the woman who had silently memorized his allergies and waited up for him in the dark every single night.

When I finally took my fifty million dollars and vanished, I left behind nothing but the divorce papers and a photo revealing the truth.

He tore the city apart, destroying my family to find me, only to realize he had tortured the wrong woman.

Now, he is standing on my porch in the pouring rain, staring in horror at the simple wooden ring on my finger given to me by another man.

He falls to his knees, begging for a chance to love the wife he tried to destroy.

I look at him, feeling absolutely nothing.

"It's too late, Donovan," I say, locking the door. "You killed her."

Chapter 1

Ava Miller POV

My mother's voice on the phone was the only thing louder than the oppressive silence of the library.

"The wire transfer is pending, Ava. Midnight tonight. You survive until then, and you get the fifty million. You break character, and your father will kill you himself."

The line went dead before I could even breathe.

I stared at the heavy mahogany desk in front of me.

My hands were shaking.

I pressed them flat against the cool leather surface, willing the tremors to cease.

Three years.

That was the sentence.

One thousand and ninety-five days of being someone else.

I looked down at the diamond wedding band on my finger.

It was heavy.

It felt like a shackle forged from cold starlight.

To the world, I was Isabella Miller. The spoiled, fiery Mafia Princess who had tamed the ruthless Donovan Blackwood.

But in this house, I was a ghost.

I was merely collateral damage in a peace treaty between two crime syndicates that hated each other.

I closed the thick book I had been pretending to read.

The clock on the wall ticked.

Ten hours left.

Ten hours until the contract expired.

Ten hours until I could take the money and disappear.

The door to the library creaked open.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

Donovan Blackwood walked in.

He was a man carved from violence and expensive suits.

As the Don of the Blackwood Famiglia, he controlled half the city, owned the police force, and had killed men for simply looking at him wrong.

He was beautiful in the way a loaded gun is beautiful.

Deadly. Sleek. Cold.

He didn't even look at me.

He walked straight to the liquor cabinet and poured a glass of amber liquid.

I sat perfectly still.

That was my superpower.

Silence.

My twin sister, the real Isabella, would have thrown a vase at him. She would have screamed for attention.

But Isabella had run away three years ago.

She had fled the night before the wedding, terrified of the monster she was promised to.

So my father put me in the white dress.

He told me to keep my mouth shut and play the part.

If I didn't, he would bury me in the foundation of his new casino.

Donovan downed the drink in one swallow.

He finally turned his icy blue eyes toward me.

They were devoid of warmth.

To him, I was the daughter of his enemy.

I was a burden he had to tolerate to keep the peace.

"Isabella," he said. His voice was a low rumble that vibrated in my chest.

I stood up.

"Yes, Donovan."

My voice was soft.

He hated that.

He hated that I didn't fight back. He thought it was a game.

"Chloe is coming over," he said. "Stay in your wing."

Chloe Sanders.

The mistress.

The woman he actually wanted.

She wasn't a made member of the mafia. She was a thrill-seeker who got off on the danger.

She had returned from Europe a month ago, and since then, I had become invisible.

"Understood," I said.

I didn't care.

I really didn't.

Every time he went to her, it meant he wasn't looking at me.

It meant my secret was safe.

But tonight was different.

Tonight was the last night.

Donovan narrowed his eyes.

He took a step toward me.

"You are too quiet today," he said.

I clasped my hands in front of me.

"Just reading."

He scoffed.

He walked past me, his shoulder brushing mine.

The scent of whiskey and gunpowder filled my nose.

It made my stomach turn.

I remembered a year ago.

The storm.

He had ordered me to deliver medicine to Chloe's apartment because his drivers were busy.

I had stood in the rain for twenty minutes.

I heard him through the door.

He told his Capo he would always choose her.

He said his wife was just a contract.

I knew that.

But hearing it out loud, while shivering in the rain, felt like a slap.

When I handed him the bag, he didn't say thank you.

He told me to give it to her directly. To show respect.

I did it.

I scrubbed my skin raw in the shower that night.

I felt dirty.

Donovan stopped at the door of the library.

He turned back.

"Don't wait up," he said.

"I won't."

He left.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

I went upstairs to my room.

I started to pack.

Just a small bag.

Essentials only.

Passport. Cash. The burner phone my mother had sent.

The hours bled away until I heard a crash downstairs.

It was past midnight.

Technically, I was free.

I should have climbed out the window right then.

But I heard shouting.

I crept to the landing.

Donovan was stumbling through the foyer.

He was drunk.

He was shouting at a shadow.

"You threatened her!" he roared.

I froze.

He looked up and saw me.

His face twisted into a snarl.

He charged up the stairs.

I backed away.

"Donovan, you're drunk," I whispered.

He grabbed my arm.

His grip was like iron.

"Chloe told me," he spat. "She told me you said you'd kill her if she didn't leave."

I shook my head.

"I never spoke to her."

"Liar!"

He shoved me.

It wasn't a hard shove.

But I was wearing wool socks on the polished wood.

I slipped.

My head cracked against the banister with a sickening thud.

Pain exploded behind my eyes.

Black spots danced in my vision.

I slumped to the floor.

Donovan stood over me.

He didn't look concerned.

He looked disgusted.

"You deserve that," he muttered.

He turned and walked into his bedroom, slamming the door.

I lay on the floor.

My head throbbed.

I touched my temple.

My fingers came away red.

I closed my eyes.

*It's just a contract,* I told myself.

*I just need to survive the night.*

Ava Miller POV

I woke up on the hardwood floor.

The sun was streaming through the hallway window, a harsh, white glare that blinded me.

My head felt like it had been split open with an axe. A dull, throbbing rhythm beat against my skull.

I tried to sit up, but the room spun violently.

I groaned, clutching my temples.

A pair of polished black shoes stepped into my line of sight.

Donovan.

He was dressed in a fresh suit, looking immaculate, as if he hadn't just assaulted his wife.

He loomed over me, his eyes void of sympathy.

"Get up," he said.

I blinked, trying to clear the fog clouding my vision.

"I think I have a concussion," I whispered.

He laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound, devoid of humor.

"Chloe has a scratch on her arm because of your threats," he said. "You'll live."

He reached down and grabbed my upper arm, his fingers digging into the tender flesh.

He hauled me to my feet with a brutal jerk.

I swayed, grabbing the banister for support as black spots danced in my vision.

Nausea rolled in my stomach.

"Get dressed," he ordered. "We are going to her penthouse."

"Why?" I asked. My voice was raspy, foreign to my own ears.

"To apologize," he said.

I stared at him.

He was serious.

He wanted his wife to apologize to his mistress for a threat I never made.

"I didn't do anything," I said.

His grip tightened on my arm until I winced.

"Don't lie to me, Isabella. I know how your family operates. You think you own everything. You think you can bully her."

He was projecting.

He was seeing my sister.

He wasn't seeing me.

I looked at the clock on the wall.

The transfer time was approaching. The money should be in the account any minute now.

I just needed to get away from him.

"Fine," I said, my tone hollow. "I'll apologize."

He released me with a shove.

"Ten minutes."

I dressed in a simple grey dress.

I didn't bother with makeup to cover the bruise blooming on my temple.

Let him see it.

Let everyone see what the great Donovan Blackwood did to his wife.

The car ride was silent, suffocating.

Donovan tapped away on his phone, ignoring me as if I were luggage.

We arrived at a luxury high-rise downtown.

Chloe opened the door.

She was wearing a silk robe that cost more than my first car.

She saw me and gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in a theatrical display of shock.

"Donovan," she whimpered. "Why is she here? I'm scared."

It was such a bad performance.

I almost laughed.

But Donovan bought it.

He stepped between us, shielding her from a threat that didn't exist.

"She's here to make it right," he said gently to her. Then his voice hardened as he looked at me. "Say it."

I looked at Chloe.

She peeked out from behind Donovan's shoulder.

A smirk curled the corner of her lips.

She wasn't scared.

She was winning.

"I'm sorry," I said. My voice was flat, dead.

"For what?" Donovan demanded.

"For scaring you," I recited. "It won't happen again."

Chloe let out a shaky breath.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I just... I want us to get along."

Donovan kissed her forehead.

"You're too good, Chloe."

He turned to me.

"Since you're here, you can help her. The maid called in sick. Chloe needs help getting ready for lunch."

I stared at him.

"You want me to clean?"

"Penance," he said.

He sat on the sofa and opened a newspaper, dismissing me completely.

I spent the next hour steaming Chloe's dress.

I fetched her water.

I picked up her discarded clothes from the floor.

I felt like a hollow shell, but inside, I was counting down the seconds.

A maid walked in to bring coffee.

She saw me on my knees, buckling Chloe's strappy sandals.

She leaned in to whisper to another servant, her voice low but audible.

"Mrs. Blackwood must love him so much to endure this," she said. "It's tragic."

Donovan looked up.

He heard it.

He looked at me.

I was still on my knees.

I didn't look angry. I didn't look proud.

I just looked tired.

For a second, confusion flashed in his eyes.

He expected Isabella to scream. To throw the shoes. He wanted the fire, not the ash.

My silence unsettled him.

He stood up abruptly.

"We're leaving," he told Chloe.

"What about her?" Chloe pointed a manicured nail at me.

"She stays," Donovan said. "She can walk home."

It was five miles to the estate.

"Okay," I said.

Donovan paused at the door.

He looked back at me, a frown marring his perfect features.

"Why do you do it?" he asked.

"Do what?"

"Stay."

I looked him in the eye.

"Because I made a promise," I said.

He didn't understand.

He thought I meant wedding vows.

I meant the contract with my father.

He shook his head and left.

I waited until the elevator chimed.

Then I took out my phone.

I checked my bank account.

Fifty million dollars.

Cleared.

I let out a sob that was half-laugh, half-cry.

I walked out of the penthouse.

I didn't go home.

I went to a pharmacy and bought a burner SIM card.

Then I checked the news.

A photo popped up.

Donovan and Chloe on a yacht.

The headline read: *Don Blackwood and Chloe Rekindle Romance. Wife nowhere in sight.*

I looked at his face in the photo.

He was smiling at her.

He never smiled at me.

I felt a strange sensation in my chest.

It wasn't jealousy.

It was relief.

He was distracted.

He wouldn't notice I was gone until it was too late.

Ava Miller POV

I didn't leave immediately.

I couldn't.

My grandfather, the Old Don of the Miller family, had summoned me.

If I didn't show, he would know something was wrong before I could even clear the city limits.

The Blackwood Family Foundation Gala was the event of the season. Every crime boss, corrupt politician, and money launderer in the state was there, clinking crystal glasses and pretending to be civilized.

I wore black.

It felt appropriate for a funeral.

Because that's what this was. The funeral of my fake life.

I stood by the champagne tower, alone. Donovan wasn't here. He was still on the "business trip" that everyone knew was a romantic getaway with Chloe.

Whispers followed me like smoke.

*Where is he?*

*She can't keep a man.*

*Pathetic.*

A hand clamped onto my elbow. It was bony, cold, and strong.

I turned to see my grandfather. His eyes were like coal, hard and unyielding.

"Where is your husband?" he hissed.

"He is working," I lied, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands.

"Liar."

A young cousin of mine, a girl of sixteen with eyes too sharp for her age, walked past us. She held up her phone, a cruel smirk playing on her lips.

"Did you see this?" she giggled. "It's trending."

She showed the screen to my grandfather.

It was a new photo. Donovan and Chloe, kissing on the deck of a yacht. The timestamp was two hours ago.

The ballroom seemed to go silent. My grandfather's grip on my arm tightened until I felt a bruise forming beneath the silk of my sleeve.

"Come with me," he said.

He dragged me out of the ballroom and into a private study reserved for the family elite. He shoved me inside.

I stumbled but caught myself on the edge of a heavy mahogany desk.

"You are embarrassing this family," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

"I can't control him," I said quietly.

"You are his wife! You are a Miller! You are supposed to be strong!"

He raised his cane.

I didn't flinch. I had learned a long time ago that flinching made it worse.

He struck me across the legs.

The wood cracked against my shin with a sickening thud.

Pain shot up my body, white and hot. I bit my lip until I tasted copper to keep from screaming.

"Fix this," he spat, looming over me. "Or next time, I won't use the cane. I'll use a bullet."

He left me there.

I waited until the pain subsided to a dull throb before I limped out the back exit.

I took a taxi back to the Blackwood Estate and dragged myself up the stairs to my room.

The door opened.

Donovan was there.

He was sitting on my bed, head in his hands. He looked tired.

He saw my limp. He saw the tear in my stocking where the cane had hit.

"What happened?" he asked.

I sat on the vanity stool, turning away from him.

"I fell," I said.

Donovan stood up. He walked over to me and crouched down. He reached out, his fingers warm as they brushed the red mark on my shin.

"Who did this?" he asked, his voice tight.

"It doesn't matter," I said. "You were busy."

He flinched. He actually flinched.

"I was working," he said automatically.

I looked at him.

"I know," I said.

I knew he was lying. He knew I knew.

He stood up and ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

"I'll call the doctor," he said.

"No," I said. "I'm fine."

He lingered in the doorway. He looked like he wanted to say something. But he didn't. He left.

Three days later, he dragged me out of the house.

He was angry about the rumors. Not because they hurt me, but because they made him look like he couldn't control his household.

He took me to a boutique downtown.

"Pick something," he ordered. "We have a dinner tonight. You need to look... alive."

He treated me like a doll. I tried on a red dress. It was tight. It showed too much skin.

Donovan stared at me in the mirror. His eyes darkened. For a second, there was heat in his gaze.

Then he looked out the window.

His body went rigid.

Chloe.

She was walking across the street. She looked upset, crying into a phone.

Donovan dropped the bags he was holding. He didn't say a word to me. He ran out of the store.

"Donovan!" I called out.

I followed him to the door.

He was running across the street toward her.

Chloe looked up. She saw him and stopped in the middle of the road, putting on a face of tragic betrayal.

Above her, construction scaffolding groaned ominously.

The metal snapped.

A pile of steel pipes and concrete debris tipped over the edge, falling straight for her.

Donovan screamed her name.

He didn't look at traffic. He didn't look at me.

He dove.

He tackled her, covering her body with his own as the world crashed down around them.