Chapter 1

Did the "Switched at Birth" trope still surprise the public? When I, the long-lost heiress everyone loved to hate, am finally brought back to the wealthy family I was born into, all eyes are on me and the flawless imposter.

Everyone expected a brutal showdown between us.

But instead, we choose to save each other.

The crystal chandeliers in the ballroom sparkled so brightly they made my eyes sting.

I stood on the spiral staircase of the Gibson estate, fingers clenched tightly around the hem of my dress.

This pale pink cocktail dress was a last-minute purchase earlier this afternoon. The price tag was still on, and it had cost more than six months of living expenses at the orphanage.

"And now, please allow me to introduce our long-lost biological daughter—Claire Gibson."

Jerry's voice echoed through the hall, amplified by the microphone.

A sharp twist hit my stomach. I almost turned and ran.

Three months ago, I was still living in the Southside Orphanage, trying to figure out how to scrape together enough money for trade school.

Three days ago, a DNA test landed me in this mansion.

Three minutes ago, Una placed a diamond necklace around my neck with tears in her eyes and said, "Welcome home."

Now, two hundred pairs of eyes were scanning me like spotlights—some curious, some sympathetic, most coldly calculating.

Sizing me up. Trying to figure out how much this so-called "real daughter" was worth.

I took a deep breath and stepped forward.

The moment my right foot touched the first step, my left caught on the hem of the dress. I stumbled forward—

"Careful!"

A flash of lavender darted toward me, and a hand grabbed my arm just in time to steady me.

A soft scent filled the air—not strong, but expensive. The kind that lingered, barely there, like something you'd smell in a high-end boutique.

I looked up and met a pair of eyes filled with a warm smile.

"Hi, I'm Andrea," she said gently, voice smooth as honey. "Welcome home, Claire."

Claire. That word stabbed straight into my temple like a needle.

I jerked my arm back so fast I nearly fell again.

A few restrained laughs broke out in the hall.

Andrea. The Gibson family's adopted daughter. The fake heiress who'd lived my life for the past twelve years.

I'd seen her face in photos more times than I could count. Now it was right in front of me.

Porcelain skin, perfectly curled chestnut hair, lips curved like someone measured them with a ruler.

Andrea wore a soft lavender gown, a thin silver chain at her neck glinting under the light. She looked like she'd just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine.

And me—Claire Gibson, the real daughter—stood there in a dress that didn't fit, hair uneven from a rushed cut at the orphanage, grease stains still stuck under my nails from part-time work at an auto shop.

Yeah. Before all this, I was an apprentice at a garage. The director at the orphanage always said, "It's good for girls to learn a skill."

"No, thanks." My voice came out stiff as I stepped past her and made my way down the stairs alone.

A scattered round of applause followed.

Jerry's smile looked forced. Una quickly stepped up to take my hand. Her palm was damp with sweat.

I let her guide me through the crowd, exchanging the same recycled greetings.

"You poor thing, you must've suffered so much."

"She really does look like Mrs. Gibson when she was younger."

"What are your plans now? Will you be transferring to Andrea's school?"

Una's eyes lit up at that one. "Of course! Claire will start at St. Land next week. She and Andrea will be in the same class. Andrea does so well in school—you'll help her sister adjust, won't you?"

That's when I noticed Andrea was still trailing behind us, like a silent shadow.

She smiled and nodded. "I'll do my best."

"Oh Una, you're so lucky—both daughters are gorgeous," a bejeweled woman chimed in.

"But Andrea's just got that glow these days. Didn't she win first place at the city piano competition last week?"

Una's attention immediately shifted to Andrea. "Yes, she's always been—"

Then she suddenly stopped mid-sentence, realizing something, and gave me a quick, awkward glance.

I pretended not to notice, focusing instead on the carpet's intricate pattern. It was so detailed it made me dizzy.

Dinner began promptly at seven.

The long table was covered in dishes I didn't even know the names of. Each place setting had three forks and four glasses.

I stared blankly at the second fork from the left—Did we really need a special one just for salad?

At the orphanage, the plastic forks could open yogurt lids and slice apples. They were multipurpose.

"Claire, this is your seat." Andrea pointed to the chair on my right.

And she herself sat to Jerry's left—the spot usually reserved for the lady of the house.

I sat down silently as a server poured lemon water into the tall crystal glass in front of me.

Across the table, a boy in a tiny tux made a face at me. "Hick!"

"Cain!" his mother hissed under her breath, then turned to me with a smile. "He's just a kid. He didn't mean it…"

I gripped my dinner knife. The first course arrived—some kind of seafood in a glossy sauce.