Chapter 2 The Substitute Lesson

# Chapter 2: The Substitute Lesson

I spent the night calculating escape routes that didn't exist. The vault was impenetrable—no windows, a single door with an electronic lock I couldn't hope to crack, and surveillance cameras covering every angle. I examined the diamond at my throat, but the clasp was some custom design I couldn't unfasten. Like me, it was trapped.

Sleep came in restless bursts. I dreamed of red light and whispered threats.

Morning arrived without sunlight, just a gradual brightening of the overhead lights. A panel in the wall slid open, revealing a breakfast tray. Beside the coffee and toast sat a stack of photographs and a manila folder.

I approached cautiously, as if the papers might bite. The top photograph showed a young woman with golden-blonde hair and delicate features. She was laughing in the image, caught mid-motion at what appeared to be a garden party. Something about her seemed familiar, though I was certain we'd never met.

The folder contained detailed information: her name was Vivienne Laurent, age 28, born in Geneva, educated at finishing schools across Europe. She was—according to the paperwork—engaged to Alexander Constantine, heir to the Constantine business empire.

Constantine. The name clicked into place. Eden Constantine. They were brothers.

The vault door opened before I could process this information further. Eden entered, immaculate in another tailored suit, followed by two men carrying equipment—a makeup table, clothing rack, and several cases.

"Good morning, Ms. Harlow. I trust you slept well?" Eden's tone was conversational, as if I were a houseguest.

"What is all this?" I gestured to the setup being arranged against one wall.

"Your education begins today." He picked up the photograph of Vivienne. "My brother's fiancée. Beautiful, isn't she? The perfect addition to the Constantine family."

I stared at him. "What does she have to do with me?"

"Everything." Eden smiled thinly. "You're going to become her."

The absurdity of his statement nearly made me laugh. "That's ridiculous. I look nothing like her."

Eden approached, studying my face with unnerving intensity. "You'd be surprised what the right makeup, hair color, and coaching can accomplish. You have similar bone structure. Close enough height and build."

"Even if that were true, which it isn't, why would I agree to this?"

"Because the alternative is considerably less pleasant." His voice remained calm, matter-of-fact. "And because deep down, Ms. Harlow, you're curious. About the diamond. About why you're here. About what happened to the real Vivienne."

A cold knot formed in my stomach. "What did happen to her?"

Eden merely smiled. "That's a story for another time. For now, let's focus on your transformation."

The next several hours were surreal. A stylist bleached and toned my chestnut hair to Vivienne's golden blonde. A makeup artist studied photographs, then recreated her look on my face. I was measured and dressed in clothing from her wardrobe—everything fit with minimal adjustments.

Eden supervised it all, occasionally stepping in to correct details. "Her posture is more upright. Vivienne was trained in ballet." Or "The accent needs work—softer on the vowels."

By afternoon, I stood before a full-length mirror, barely recognizing myself. The woman staring back was a strange hybrid—my features rearranged by makeup and expression to echo Vivienne's.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked Eden's reflection behind me.

"My brother stole something precious from me," he said simply. "I'm merely returning the favor."

"By what? Making me pretend to be his fiancée? He'll know I'm not her."

"Alexander has never met Vivienne in person." Eden's revelation stunned me. "Their engagement was arranged through family connections. All communication has been through letters, phone calls, and video chats—carefully supervised by her 'protective' family."

"That's insane. Who has arranged marriages these days?"

"Old money has old ways, Ms. Harlow. The Constantine fortune wasn't built by following modern conventions." Eden circled me, adjusting my posture. "And Vivienne's family—or rather, the people claiming to be her family—were very convincing."

"You orchestrated this whole thing," I realized. "Created a fake fiancée for your brother."

"And now I need a real one." Eden's smile was cold. "The engagement period is over. It's time for Alexander to meet his bride."

"He'll never believe I'm her."

"He will, because you'll make him believe it." Eden pulled out a stack of notebooks. "These are Vivienne's diaries. Study them. Learn her thoughts, her mannerisms, her secrets."

I took the notebooks reluctantly. "And if I refuse?"

Eden grabbed my wrist, his grip painfully tight. With his other hand, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small knife, its blade glinting under the lights.

"Writing practice comes next," he said, voice dangerously soft as he forced me into a chair at a small desk. "Vivienne has a very distinctive signature. You'll need to replicate it perfectly."

He placed a pen in my hand and paper before me. At the top was Vivienne's flowing signature.

"Write it," he commanded.

My first attempt wasn't even close. Eden tore the paper in half.

"Again."

My second try was better but still obviously different. Eden's patience visibly thinned.

He leaned down, his face inches from mine, and placed the knife against my fingers where they held the pen. His voice was soft but lethal.

"Write incorrectly one more time, and I'll cut off one of your fingers..." His eyes met mine. "But don't worry. I'll have it made into a ring. A memento of your failure."

Fear shot through me like electricity. My third attempt was shaky but much closer to the original.

"Better," Eden conceded. "Again. Fifty more times."

I practiced until my hand cramped, Eden watching every stroke. By the thirtieth repetition, I could produce a reasonable facsimile of Vivienne's signature. By the fiftieth, even I had trouble telling them apart.

"Good," Eden said finally. "You learn quickly. That will serve you well."

"What happens now?" I asked, flexing my aching fingers.

"Now you study." He gestured to the diaries. "Every detail of her life. Her likes, dislikes, memories. Everything Alexander might ask about."

"Why go through all this trouble? What do you want from your brother?"

Eden's expression darkened. "Justice. He took everything from me. My birthright. My mother." His fingers brushed against the diamond at my throat. "Now I'll take everything from him."

He left me with the diaries and a warning that I would be tested on their contents. The vault door sealed behind him, leaving me alone with Vivienne's thoughts and memories.

I opened the first diary. The handwriting was elegant, the content surprisingly ordinary—thoughts about fashion, complaints about strict parents, dreams of romance. As I read deeper, inconsistencies emerged. References to places that didn't match earlier entries. Memories that seemed fabricated rather than lived.

These weren't real diaries. They were props, created to build a character.

Curious, I pulled books from the shelves that lined one wall of the vault. More of Vivienne's diaries, dozens of them, spanning years. I grabbed one from the top shelf, dated two years earlier. The handwriting was different—more genuine, less practiced. The voice felt authentic.

These were real. But whose? Was there actually a Vivienne Laurent?

I read late into the night, piecing together fragments of a life. The early diaries spoke of isolation, of being controlled by family, of dreams to escape. The later ones showed a growing resignation, acceptance of her fate as a pawn in family politics.

The last diary ended abruptly. I flipped through blank pages until, on the very last page, a different handwriting appeared—messy, desperate:

"If you're reading this, help me. Please. They're going to—"

The entry stopped mid-sentence. I stared at the words, a chill running down my spine.

Someone had been playing the role of Vivienne before me. Someone who needed help. Someone who might have disappeared.

And now I was taking her place.