Chapter 1

“Attorney, I want to divorce my husband Denver… and erase my existence from their lives entirely.”

“Alicia, are you certain about this? I advise you both to think carefully—especially considering you’re the rightful heir to the Montero Group.”

But I had already thought it through. I’ve been Denver’s wife for years. I endured the silence, the betrayals, the way he looked at her—Patricia. The woman who grew up in my place, raised as the daughter that was meant to be me after a nurse’s mistake switched our identities at birth.

A month ago, we got into an accident. Patricia got hurt. I lost our baby.

And instead of holding me, Denver blamed me. Then, I overheard him.

“I’m thinking of spiking her drink at the next gala. Set the scene. Let her wake up next to another guy. That way, everyone will think she cheated. I’ll file for divorce, and everyone—including her family—will side with me. I walk away clean… and I’ll finally be with Patricia.”

That was the moment I truly woke up. No more pretending. No more hoping he’d love me back.

“I’ve made up my mind,” I told the lawyer, steady and certain. “And he won’t object.”

Because I knew—deep down, Denver never loved me.

Days later, I carefully wrapped the divorce papers and slipped my wedding ring into the envelope.

I was finally free.

--

The phone barely rang twice before my best friend Rain picked up.

"Rain," I whispered into the receiver, my voice barely holding steady. "I need your help. My divorce will be finalized in five days. Can you come pick me up then?"

There was a pause, and then the sound of shuffling. “Wait, what? Divorce?” her voice rose sharply. “Alicia, finally! You’ve come to your senses. I told you—you don’t deserve that man.”

A bitter laugh escaped me. “Yeah… I didn’t.”

Denver had stopped deserving me a long time ago. But still, this decision didn’t come easy.

Not until the accident. Not until I lost our baby.

It happened two weeks ago. I was behind the wheel with my adopted sister Patricia in the passenger seat, and I’d had a glass of wine—just one, not even enough for me to be drunk. Still, I didn’t want to drive that day, but Patricia had forced me to do it. And that’s when everything changed. A car bumped into us, too late for me to even turn to save ourselves.

When I woke up in the hospital, I was told two things.

One: Patricia had a fractured leg and a broken arm, but she’d recover.

Two: I had lost the baby. My baby. The only heartbeat I had been holding on to, hoping it would keep our marriage.

But instead of comfort, instead of support—I got blame. I was sure that it wasn’t even my fault. It was the car that collided with us, but because Patricia told them I had a glass of wine—they thought it was my fault for drunk driving.

“You should’ve let Patricia drive,” Denver had growled at my bedside, eyes burning. “She had a conference to attend for the company. And now look at her? You’ve ruined everything. You just stay at home and do nothing, and then this? What a useless one!”

I remembered blinking up at him, the sterile lights above flickering, and wondering how we had ended up here. When had the man who once held my hand so gently begun to crush it?

And yet, this wasn't the first betrayal. It was just the loudest.

I’d grown up believing love meant giving, bending, sacrificing. I thought if I just gave enough, they’d love me back.

Patricia and I had been born on the same day, in the same hospital, just minutes apart. A flurry of nurses, two newborn girls crying, a power outage that knocked out the identification tags. In the chaos, one frightened nurse made a mistake she’d carry for decades—and never had the courage to fix. She swapped the babies. Me and Patricia. One simple, tragic mix-up.

Patricia went home with the Monteras—an elite, old-money family known for their legacy, their wealth, their name. I, Alicia, the real daughter of Montera Group’s heir, went home with a working-class couple in the city outskirts, a quiet, simple life full of secondhand shoes, hard work, and honest love.

I never knew the difference. Not until the nurse, wracked with guilt and dying of illness, finally confessed. She called the Monteras and told them everything. Tests were done. Blood types checked. Legal papers pulled.

It was true. I was the real Montera daughter.

And Patricia… was not. But by then, it was too late.

The Monteras had raised Patricia for over two decades. She was the “golden child.” The media darling. Groomed to take over the company. Trained in etiquette, strategy, public relations. She fit in their world so seamlessly that no one—not even her—wanted to admit the truth.

They welcomed me in, yes. But not as a daughter. As a charity case. A pitiful mistake they were now obligated to clean up.

They still treated Patricia as their daughter. Still celebrated her every move, while I was tucked away like a faded memory they couldn’t throw out but couldn’t look at, either.

I was the real daughter. But never their choice.

Even Denver had chosen her. At first, I convinced myself it was just admiration, proximity, the fact that they knew each other before me. But then I overheard him.

It was at the back of the garden during a gala, just a few days after I was discharged from the hospital. He was speaking to someone I couldn’t see, his voice hushed but clear.

“I should’ve married Patricia. God, I regret marrying Alicia. She’s weak. Ordinary. No spark. Patricia would’ve made sense—imagine the power couple we could’ve been.”

I froze behind the hedge, my hand clamped over my mouth.

And then he said it.

“I’m thinking of spiking her drink at the next gala. Set the scene. Let her wake up next to a guy so everyone will think she cheated with another guy. By then, I could file for a divorce because everyone would side with me, even her family. I’ll walk away clean and then be with Patricia.”

My stomach churned, bile rising in my throat. He wanted me gone. That was the moment something inside me shattered—and something else, something harder, began to take its place.

I pulled myself back into the present when I heard his voice call from the kitchen.

“Babe! I made your favorite.”

I wiped my eyes quickly and stood, walking slowly toward the smell of food. I knew what was coming. He was trying again. Trying to play the perfect husband before the next blow.

I stepped into the kitchen. He stood by the stove, smiling, wearing that apron Patricia had gifted him.

"Come on, sit." He kissed my cheek like nothing had ever happened. Like we didn’t lose our child. He didn’t even mourn with me and just told me we could make another baby.

I looked down at the food and felt my stomach turn.

Mushroom risotto. That was Patricia’s favorite. Mine was steak. He knew that. Or maybe he had forgotten—because he never really paid attention.

Because I was never the one he saw. Because I was just… convenient.

Five more days. And I would never have to look at this man again.

Chapter 2

I lit the candle in silence.

It was a soft white flame, steady and still, unlike my trembling fingers as I placed it beside the tiny pair of socks we had bought just a month ago. Blue and cotton-soft. Denver had picked them out, said they reminded him of the sky. He had said he wanted our son to grow up brave.

I knelt in front of the little altar I had made for our baby and closed my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, voice quaking. “I should’ve protected you better. I should’ve seen them for what they are. I’m sorry you never got a chance to meet this world... but maybe that’s a blessing too.”

I stayed like that for minutes—or maybe hours—just letting the grief pass through me. When I finally stood, I knew what I had to do next.

It was time to move on.

I started with the nursery.

Every folded onesie. Every pacifier. Every soft animal blanket. Every memory I thought we would build was packed into boxes. And then, I added the things Denver gave me—the anniversary necklaces, the journals, even the framed photo of us on our honeymoon in Italy where he whispered, “You’re my everything.”

All lies.

I carried the boxes out to the fire pit behind the house, lit a match, and watched the past burn.

Ash curled up into the air like ghosts escaping. As I stood there, the wind catching my hair, I remembered the first time I met Denver.

Five years ago.

It was the night I was told I was the rightful heiress to the Montera Group. Everything I knew about my life had unraveled in a single breath. But Denver was there. Calm, warm, persuasive. My family said it was fate—he was the son of a partner corporation, a perfect face for the merger.

And me? I was foolishly in love. At first sight, even. He made me feel seen.

At least in the beginning. But love from a man like Denver came with conditions. Expectations. Manipulation.

And betrayal.

After the flames died down, I returned inside to clean. I opened Denver’s closet to arrange his things, still like a perfect wife.

That’s when I saw it. A box tucked behind his jackets. I pulled it out, curious. It was heavier than I expected.

When I opened it, my heart stopped.

A photo album. And not just any album—prenup photos. Of Denver. And Patricia.

I stared at the glossy images, each one a dagger. Patricia in a white gown. Denver in a black tuxedo. Her smiling at him like a woman in love. Him holding her like a man who had already moved on.

The dates were recent. Just days before the accident. My mouth went dry. My legs threatened to give out beneath me. But I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I simply closed the box, and walked it outside.

I told myself I’d already mourned enough.

When I came back in, the scent of garlic and butter wafted through the house. Patricia was in the kitchen, flipping shrimp on the pan like she belonged there. My mother, Paula, and my father, David, were seated at the dining table. Denver was setting out wine glasses, smiling like everything was perfectly normal.

I paused at the doorway.

Patricia turned and beamed at me. “Just in time. I made shrimp pasta. It’s one of Denver’s favorites—and Mom’s.”

We sat down. The plate was set in front of me, steaming, garnished with parsley.

I just stared at it.

“What’s wrong now?” my mother snapped, already impatient. “You’re not going to eat?”

“I’m… not hungry,” I murmured.

She sighed and waved a hand. “Always the difficult one. Can’t you at least appreciate your sister’s effort?”

Patricia tilted her head. “It’s okay, really. She doesn’t have to eat if she doesn’t want to.”

“She should,” Denver cut in smoothly. “Patricia went through the trouble. Don’t be rude, Alicia. It’s not always about you.”

Not always about me?

I bit my lip. Hard. They didn’t know. Or maybe they did and simply forgot.

I was allergic to shrimp. I had been hospitalized for it once. A full-blown anaphylactic shock. But no one remembered. No one asked.

Not even Denver. Not even my own mother because even if I said no, they forced me to eat, just for Patricia.

“Fine,” I said, swallowing my pride—and spoonful of pasta.

It only took seconds.

My throat began to tighten. My chest felt like it was caving in. I couldn’t breathe.

I clutched the table edge, struggling for air.

“What now?” Paula snapped. “Is the food not good enough for you?”

“She’s doing this on purpose,” Denver muttered, sipping his wine. “If you didn’t like it, you could’ve just said so, Alicia.”

I tried to speak, but no sound came out.

My vision blurred. Spots danced in the corners of my eyes. I was drowning in air.

Then—darkness.

Chapter 3

The antiseptic scent of the hospital room was the first thing I registered.

Then the beep. Soft and steady, like it was reminding me that I was still alive.

I blinked, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece together how I’d gotten here—until the taste of shrimp returned to my mouth like a cruel joke, and everything came rushing back. The dinner table. Their laughter. My body betraying me.

I sighed, turning my head slowly toward the window. The sunlight was soft, golden.

I was alone. I sat up, ignoring the slight tug of the IV in my hand. I reached for my phone, the screen lighting up with unread notifications. None from Denver. None from Patricia. None from my mother or father.

I then opened my social media. And there it was.

A photo from Patricia’s story, now gone from her feed but still fresh in my memory. Them at an art auction—laughing. My parents beside them. Denver standing behind Patricia, his hand resting casually on her lower back.

The caption read: “Celebrating life with those who matter.”

A jagged laugh tore from my throat. So that was it. I had nearly died, and they were sipping champagne under chandeliers. Well. it was also my fault for eating it. I thought they would notice me after this. Yet, I was wrong—I would never be part of the family even if I am the real daughter.

I dropped the phone onto the bed and looked around. No flowers. No cards. Not even a fruit basket.

When I asked the nurse if anyone had come to check on me, she gave me an apologetic smile and said, “No, ma’am. No visitors so far.”

Even after all this time—even after the truth about the bloodline, the switched lives, the heartbreak—they still loved Patricia more. Always more.

And me? I had loved them too much. I gave them my everything. My name. My future. My body. Even my baby. And what did I get in return?

Disregard. Disrespect. Disgust.

But I was done.

That afternoon, I received a text from my lawyer.

Lawyer: Divorce has been finalized. The official documents are en route.

Then Rain messaged me, ever the savior in my life.

Rain: Everything’s ready. Do you want to disappear? Or… marry a stranger and make your own headlines? I can arrange both.

Me: Anything. Anyone. Just get me out of here.

I signed my own discharge forms and left the hospital with nothing but my coat and my silence. The air outside hit colder than I expected. I took it as a sign—there was nothing left for me here. Not warmth. Not family. Not love.

I returned to the mansion to collect a few things before I’d vanish for good. No one noticed. The house was abuzz with preparations for the annual Montera gala. Guests. Lights. Champagne flutes. Patricia in center stage, directing florists and string quartets like she was the queen of it all.

She turned and offered me a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, you’re back. Alicia… I’m sorry about what happened. I didn’t mean for you to get sick.”

My mother looked up from the planner. “She just wants attention. Always has. And if she knew she was allergic, why would she eat it? What a useless woman!”

I looked down. It hurts. But I didn’t want it to burn inside me.

Then my mother tossed a clipboard at me. “Since you’re here, help organize the final details. And if anything goes wrong, it’s on you.”

Of course. Always me.

I worked until dawn. Every seating chart. Every floral arrangement. Every email and phone call. I barely ate. Barely slept. But I endured. Because I had a plan.

Just a few more days.

During a break, I wandered into the hall and caught Denver and Patricia whispering near the piano. His fingers brushed her cheek. She giggled. They leaned in too close.

When I passed, he pulled away and gave me that same old line.

“She’s just my friend. You know that, right? So don’t look at us like you’re jealous. We’ve always been close. Even before you came into the picture—it was supposed to be us.”

He said it like I was the mistake. The intruder.

I didn’t reply.

That night, as I finally lay down in the guest room—barely able to keep my eyes open—I heard it.

Soft whimpers. Muffled bursts. Patricia’s room was down the hall, but the sounds carried. The headboard creaked. A sharp intake of breath. Then Denver’s voice—low, familiar.

I walked out into the hallway and stood frozen outside the cracked door.

There, through the sliver, I saw them. Tangled. Sweaty. Sheets wrapped around their bodies like silk secrets. Her laugh. His voice.

I just turned around and walked back to my room.

Chapter 4

Today was the final stretch before the gala. One more day of pretending. One more day of smiling through a hollow.

I wrapped a scarf around my hair, pulled on my coat, and headed toward the main hall to double-check the placement cards. That was when the door creaked open behind me.

Patricia. Her smile was different now—sharp around the edges, too polished to be sincere. There was no audience this time. No parents. No Denver. Just us. And when it was just us, Patricia was never sweet.

She stepped into the room like she owned it. “You’re up early,” she said with mock cheer. “Still playing the diligent servant? That’s so admirable.”

I said nothing. I didn’t need to. I knew exactly who she was when no one was looking.

This wasn’t new. I still remembered the time she’d shattered my favorite porcelain doll when—then screamed that I pushed her into the cabinet. I got grounded. She got a new dress.

Another time, she convinced me to sneak cookies from the kitchen and then cried to our mother when we were caught. I took the blame. She got praised for being honest.

Even when we were older, she’d whisper cruel things in passing:

"Denver only married you because of the merger."

"You’ll always be second-best, Alicia. Doesn’t matter whose blood runs in your veins."

It never stopped. And worse, no one ever believed me when I tried to tell the truth. I was always the liar. The ungrateful one. The burden.

Maybe it had been a mistake, choosing to leave behind the couple who raised me with love, the ones who tucked me in at night and kissed my bruises for my real parents. But they were gone now.

I thought coming back to my blood family would mean I belonged somewhere. I was wrong.

Patricia crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe. “I need you to do something,” she said, voice crisp. “Don’t attend the gala tomorrow.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” She walked closer, pulling an envelope from her coat. “There’s a ticket here. One-way. To the province. I booked you a resort for a week. You like quiet places, don’t you?”

She set the envelope down on my dresser like it was some peace offering. “You don’t need to be at the gala. You’ll only ruin it. And you should stay away from Denver while you’re at it. You’re not fit for him, Alicia. Never were.”

There it was. Her real voice. Cold. Entitled. Cruel.

“I know what you saw,” she added softly. “And it doesn’t matter. You’re still married… for now. But it’s only a matter of time.”

I looked at her—really looked at her. And for the first time, I didn’t flinch. I didn’t fold.

“You don’t have to worry,” I said, voice even. “After tomorrow, you’ll never have to see me again.”

Her eyes flickered. “Good.”

I walked out without another word.

That night, I took a long bath. Soaked in lavender, let the steam blur the mirror and my mind. I was exhausted. Not from the errands or the decor prep. From pretending. From staying silent.

When I stepped out, wrapped in a robe and toweling my hair, the door slammed open.

It was my mother. Without warning, she threw something at me. A gown. Beaded, emerald green.

“What on earth is this?” she snapped, tossing a delicate velvet box at me. The lid flipped open on impact, revealing a broken gold chain and shattered emerald pendant.

I stared at it, stunned. “Is that your necklace?”

She crossed her arms. “Patricia said she saw you near my room. Did you do this?”

I blinked, still staring at the broken emerald pendant, my voice soft. “No. I didn’t even go near your room.”

She scoffed. “Liar. Patricia said she saw you. You’ve always been jealous of what isn’t yours. And now you’re breaking things?”

“I didn’t—” My breath caught in my throat. “I swear I didn’t do it.”

That was all it took.

A sharp crack filled the room. My head snapped to the side.

She had slapped me.

Hard.

The sting bloomed across my cheek, my skin burning, my ears ringing—not from the pain, but from the words that followed.

“I should’ve left you with those peasants who raised you!” she shouted. “You think you’re our blood? You’ll never be one of us. I regret ever claiming you as my daughter. Patricia is my only child.”

My body froze. Her words settled like lead in my chest.

Then she turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

I stood there, trembling, the box still in my hands, the sound of my own heartbeat thudding in my ears.

A soft knock.

Then Patricia stepped inside.

“Are you okay?” she asked gently, reaching for me.

I pulled back instinctively, but she came closer—offering me that same false comfort she always wore like perfume.

“You know,” she said in a voice only I could hear, her hand brushing my arm with sisterly sweetness. “Maybe she’s right. No one really loves you. You’re just…extra.”

Her words sliced deeper than the slap.

Before I could stop myself, something inside me snapped.

I shoved her.

Chapter 5

My hands shoved Patricia, and for a second, she staggered back, wide-eyed. I hadn’t meant to push her that hard—it wasn’t even that hard. But in true Patricia fashion, she made it dramatic.

“You little—!” she hissed and lunged at me, nails aimed for my hair.

Before I could react, she had grabbed a fistful of it, yanking my head to the side. Pain tore across my scalp as I fought back, grabbing her wrist, trying to break free.

“Enough!” I screamed, pushing against her again.

She scratched me. I could feel it—sharp lines burning across my cheek and neck. We stumbled backward, grappling like children, like animals.

“What the heck is going on here?” Denver's voice thundered as he stormed into the room.

Patricia instantly started crying. “She hit me! Look at what she did!” she whimpered, showing the faint red line on her arm.

“She attacked me first!” I shouted, pointing at the mess of my hair, the torn edge of my shirt, the blood beading on my cheek.

Denver didn’t even hesitate.

“Alicia, what is wrong with you? Are you insane?”

“She started it!” I yelled, eyes wide. “She provoked me! She said—”

“Shut up.” He snapped the words like a whip. “God, you’re pathetic. You’re always the problem.”

I stood there in shock as Patricia sniffled behind him, clutching her fake wounds.

Denver looked me in the eye, with the coldest look I had ever seen on his face. “You’re nothing compared to your Patricia. She’s elegant, composed. And you? You’re just a bitter mess.”

The room went silent. The silence after betrayal is different. It’s heavier. More permanent. He didn’t even bother checking up on me.

I am his wife! But none of it matters now.

That night, I cried myself to sleep. The scratch on my cheek throbbed, but the pain in my chest hurt far worse.

The morning after I made up my mind, Denver asked me to go with him to shop for the upcoming gala event. I said yes for the last time.

We walked into the boutique together, his hand resting lightly on my lower back like he always did in public—as if he actually cared. As if he hadn’t spent the night tangled in someone else's arms.

While he picked out suits and luxury items to donate, I trailed behind, silent, detached. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was Rain.

“Who are you texting?” Denver asked suddenly, eyes narrowing. He reached for my phone without thinking.

I held it tighter, pulling it away. “Do you really need to read private conversations between girls?” I said coolly, arching a brow.

His jaw clenched, but he backed off. “Enough with the phone. We’re heading home soon.”

Once we returned to the estate, Denver made up some excuse about needing to meet someone.

As soon as the door closed behind him, I moved quickly. I went to the study, opened the safe behind the bookshelf, and pulled out the hospital’s miscarriage report—the one no one ever bothered to mourn with me.

I placed it in an envelope, along with the signed divorce agreement. And the last thing: our wedding ring.

After sealing the envelope, I called the delivery guy to send it as a gift to Denver during the gala event.

Then, I took one last walk through the estate. I wiped down every surface I touched. Deleted my fingerprint from the smart lock. Left the keys on the dining table—until every trace of my presence was gone.