Chapter 2
I stood up and, with a flair of theatrical mystery, pushed open the door to the adjacent room.
"Ta-da!" I announced.
Another perfectly pink, dreamy children's room was revealed, making both little girls' eyes go wide.
Three days ago, after a rather unfortunate free-fall from the 18th floor, I woke up here, transplanted directly into the world of a novel about a switched-at-birth heiress.
The whole thing was completely random, and I didn't know the first thing about the plot.
It wasn't until the floating comments appeared, like a bizarre heads-up display for my life, that I finally understood my purpose here.
Luckily, I am a quick study. I managed to piece together the entire story from the fragmented, catty remarks.
My new role was the wealthy, single mother of the real heiress.
Rich, husband-free, with endless free time, I was supposed to be living my best life.
Instead, because of my blatant favoritism, my two daughters became locked in a toxic rivalry.
They smiled for me, but behind my back, they fought tooth and nail over everything, like a bedroom, a slice of cake, and a boy.
The story ended in tragedy. One daughter attempted suicide, and the other ended up in prison. And I was committed to a psychiatric hospital. Not a single one of us got a happy ending.
When children are at war, it's usually the parents who failed.
I had mulled it over. The original mother's tendency to coddle and spoil Stella, the fake heiress, was the root cause of all the misery.
So, after some serious soul-searching, I spent all night drafting what I called "The Fair Play Protocol."
After that, my philosophy boiled down to a single word: fairness.
Which is why, on the very first day of my new, ridiculously wealthy life, I had called in a contractor to duplicate Stella's room.
You can't clone a person, but you can damn well clone a bedroom.
Whatever one daughter had, the other would have too.
"This," I said gently to Lucy, "is the room I had made just for you. I promise, everything in here is exactly the same as what your sister has. Not a single detail is different."
But the joyful expression I expected never came. Instead, she turned away with a look of disgust and snapped, "She is not my sister. And I don't want a room just like hers. It's childish."
I saw the undisguised loathing in her eyes when she said the word "sister."
A nurse's mistake had swapped them at birth, derailing both their lives.
Stella had grown up as a pampered princess, the sole daughter of a wealthy woman.
Lucy's adoptive parents had died in a car crash, and she had been abandoned at an orphanage by distant relatives, forced to live a life of hardship.
Who could blame her for not warming up to Stella?
I took her small shoulders and gently turned her to face me.
"Then tell me," I asked with all the patience I could summon. "Why don't you want to stay here anymore? Just a minute ago, you said it was beautiful."
"I... I..." Lucy stammered.
I could totally see how torn she was. I mean, just the other day she was going on about how it was her dream to wake up in a gorgeous room like this.
Now, she wanted to take it all back, but her pride was in the way. She just stood there, picking at her fingernails.
What a complicated little girl.
I maintained a gentle but expectant silence. She was only a kid, after all. It didn't take long for her face to flush a deep, painful red.
"I didn't mean to lie," she mumbled. Her voice was so quiet that I could barely hear it.
She risked a glance at me, and seeing no judgment, she took a shaky breath and explained, "The director at the orphanage always said that girls are supposed to wear pink and like pink rooms.
"She said girls who wear dark colors are tomboys, and... and that nobody likes a tomboy."
Her words felt like a vice squeezing my heart. I stepped forward, with an overwhelming urge to pull her into a hug.
She flinched and tried to pull away, but I was stronger. I just held her gently.
"It doesn't matter what colors you like," I whispered into her hair. "You are my baby, no matter what."
A long silence answered me, but I didn't mind. I just kept talking.
"I missed nine years of your life, Lucy. I don't know what you love or what you hate.
"If you don't tell me, or if you tell me what you think I want to hear, then I'll never, ever get to truly know you. And that would break my heart."
It turned out Lucy wasn't a fan of the explosive-pink-princess aesthetic. She preferred a minimalist, industrial style, like blacks, whites, and grays. And she especially hated stuffed animals on her bed.
The design team I called was amazing. They heard my new requests, swore they could get it done on time and on budget, and walked away with a fat check and huge smiles.
While her room was under renovation, I set Lucy up in the guest room.
That night, after I tucked in Stella, who was already snoring like a hibernating bear, I crept out and went to the guest room. I found Lucy lying perfectly still, her body rigid, but her eyelashes were trembling. She was faking.
A smile touched my lips, but I didn't call her out on it. Instead, I leaned down close to her ear and whispered, my voice a secret meant only for the two of us, "Welcome home, my daughter."