Chapter 2

Memories came crashing back.

Fifteen years ago, the driver who caused the crash died on impact, and his wife didn't make it either, leaving behind a daughter my age.

After three months in a coma, I woke up to find that girl—Rosaline—already living my life.

First came the little stuff: my skirt "accidentally" stained, homework "mysteriously" vanishing, my rep at school going down the drain.

Slowly, my parents' eyes went from loving to disappointed.

Then the big blows: at thirteen, Rosaline spiked my water before a piano competition. I got dizzy and messed up my piece.

She took first place, and judges snickered, "So that's the Sullivan family's golden girl? What a letdown."

At sixteen, she faked pics of me with a school dropout and plastered them all over campus.

Zachary saw them and canceled our date on the spot.

At my eighteenth birthday party, she goaded me on purpose. The second I gave her a light shove, she threw herself down the stairs.

Right in front of everyone, Dad smacked me across the face, and Mom cried, "How'd you get so vicious?"

At twenty, Rosaline teamed up with a doctor to fake a diagnosis, claiming I had delusions and violent tendencies.

Then I was locked in a psych ward for three months. By the time I got out, she and Zachary were official.

Every memory cut like a knife.

I felt like a puppet, totally powerless to even think about fighting back.

My phone lit up again—Zachary was calling.

I stared at his name, a wave of nausea churning in my stomach.

This man had sworn to protect me forever, but quickly, he bought Rosaline's crappy lies and became her royal knight.

I held down the power button and shut my phone off.

Then I went to the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and splashed cold water on my face.

In the mirror, I saw a woman with red-rimmed eyes and a twisted smile.

That smile was new—sharp, cold, like a predator's.

And that was the real me.

I dried my face, opened my laptop, and checked social media.

Just as I figured, the trending pages were on fire.

[Real Or Fake Sullivan Heiress]

[High Society Wedding Scandal]

[Rosaline Leaked Photos]

Rosaline's besties had already started their counterattack.

Miranda Lynn, the Lynn Group heiress, posted a snide update.

It read: [Looks like someone's delusional disorder is flaring up again? Kicked out for bad behavior and now spreading rumors? Rosaline's too nice to fight back, but us friends won't let this slide. Justice delayed but never denied!]

The post showed a group pic of their clique, Rosaline front and center, looking pitiful and innocent.

I scoffed, logged into an old account, and uploaded two files.

One was a fifteen-year-old paternity test—proof Rosaline wasn't blood-related to the Sullivans.

The other was a set of photos showing Rosaline hooking up with different guys at hotels over three years.

The latest one was from just last week. It caught her and Mason Lynn, Zachary's best man, getting way too close in the changing room.

I typed out, "Justice delayed but never denied," added Miranda's name, and hit send.

Within ten minutes, my clunky laptop started blowing up with social media notifications.

Miranda's comment section exploded.

[OH MY GOD! Plot twist.]

[Photoshopped, right? Rosaline's always so sweet.]

[Open your eyes! Paternity test says she's the fake.]

[Seriously, the best man too? Does Zachary even know?]

[Typical rich people drama.]

I shut the laptop and poured a glass of red.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

Through the peephole, I saw a familiar face.

It was Lucas Foster, the Sullivan family's butler—the only one who'd been kind to me.

"Ms. Sullivan, it's me," he whispered.