Chapter 2
Maurice's eyes were sharp, churning with malice and a burning desire for destruction.
But the moment I saw him clearly, the storm in his eyes stopped.
He jolted and stood there like a statue, unable to move.
The grip on my neck disappeared instantly.
I collapsed to the floor, clutching my neck, gasping for air as tears poured down my face.
"Deborah..." he murmured.
He stared at me, mumbling a name that sounded strange to my ears.
"Your eyes..." he said, his voice trembling. "Why... are your eyes..."
He looked like he'd just seen something both terrifying and precious, freaking out and backing away fast until his wheelchair slammed into the table corner with a loud crash.
The next second, he rushed back over, stopping right in front of me.
He reached out, but his hand shot out and then snatched back halfway, like I was some glass artifact he was scared to break.
He fumbled with his sleeve, awkwardly trying to wipe my tears.
The expensive fabric brushed my cheek, so soft that it barely felt real. His hand shook with panic that he couldn't hide.
"Please don't cry," Maurice said, his voice hoarse and thick with emotion, almost begging.
He said gently, "I'm not going to hurt you.
"Take my life. It's yours."
He pulled a sharp dagger from under his pillow and pressed it into my hand, not giving me a chance to refuse.
The cold blade sent a jolt through me.
I looked at him, dumbfounded.
His eyes were bloodshot, locked onto mine, and he spoke each word slowly and firmly.
"Don't be scared. I won't hurt you," Maurice said, his voice trembling but full of promise.
I survived in the Langston estate.
Not only did I survive, but I also thrived like a queen.
Early the next morning, gifts from the palace and the Crawford family flooded into the Langston estate.
Fine silks, luxurious fabrics, and exotic treasures stacked up in the courtyard, covering every inch.
Everyone was shocked.
The notorious Maurice, said to kill without blinking, was spoiling a stand-in bride, an illegitimate daughter, to this extent.
The servant in charge of delivering the gifts grinned at me, his face wrinkled from smiling, calling me "Lady Catherine" again and again, his tone flattering.
The person sent by the Crawford family was Zola Parker, my mother's trusted maid.
She looked around at the courtyard piled high with gifts, then at me, without a scratch on me, her expression a spectacle of jealousy, regret, and utter disbelief.
I straightened my back on purpose, mimicking Briana's usual proud demeanor, and said calmly, "Mother went to a lot of trouble. I'll accept the gifts. You can go now."
Zola's face went green, then white, before she awkwardly shuffled off, looking thoroughly embarrassed.
As I watched her leave, a warped sense of satisfaction twisted inside me. It was a taste of revenge.
Maurice was standing nearby, watching me.
His eyes were a tangled mix of obsession, sorrow, and something else, something searching, something I couldn't figure out.
Maurice dismissed all the maids in the estate, saying they were too clumsy and might get in my way.
He personally served me, piling my plate so high that it looked like a mountain, and watched me eat, refusing to look away until I finished every bite.
He even allowed me to touch his leg.
That was his off-limits area. Rumor had it that a maid once accidentally brushed against his leg, and he beat her to death right then and there.
But when I accidentally touched his leg, he just froze for a moment, then said in an almost gentle tone, "It's fine."
The servants' attitude toward me did a complete 180.
They treated me with newfound respect, even a hint of fear.
But behind my back, I could hear them whispering.
One maid said, "Lady Catherine really looks like someone from his past."
Another chimed in, "Yeah, especially those eyes, they're the same."
The third maid nodded. "Maurice is just treating her as a substitute."
When I heard them say I was a substitute, my heart sank.
I was curious to find out who Deborah really was.
At night, Maurice would sit beside my bed.
He never touched me. Instead, under the pale moonlight pouring in from the window, he'd quietly study my face, tracing my features over and over with his eyes.
His gaze was focused and full of sorrow, as if he was looking right past me, searching for someone else.
"Deborah..." he'd whisper.
He always called me Deborah.
He showered me with all kinds of treasures.
There was a pearl hairpin, and Maurice said Deborah loved pearls best.
He gave me a box of freshly made cheesecake in the palace and said it was Deborah's favorite snack.
He gifted me with a priceless piano, telling me Deborah was the best at playing it.
Everything about me carried Deborah's imprint.
I was living in her shadow, soaking up all the privileges and attention that were meant for her.
It was humiliating, but there was a twisted sense of relief, too.
At least, I survived.