Chapter 2 Who is the True Love?

Chapter 2: Who is the True Love?

I dream of her every night since the accident. A face identical to mine, yet somehow softer. Her laughter echoes through corridors I've never walked, in a house I don't recognize. Sometimes she's warning me, her lips forming words I can't hear. Other times, she's just watching, her eyes filled with a sadness so profound it feels like drowning.

Tonight, she speaks.

"He can't tell the difference," she whispers, her fingertips cold against my cheek. "He never could."

I jolt awake to the familiar red dot of the camera, blinking in the darkness like a malevolent eye. Three weeks in this gilded cage, and I'm no closer to escape. Ward watches me constantly—at breakfast, as I shower, while I sleep. The few times he leaves, a security team monitors my every move.

"Good morning, Mrs. Stevens." The maid sets down a tray of untouched breakfast, same as yesterday. "Mr. Stevens asked me to remind you about your medication."

The little blue pill sits accusingly beside my coffee. I've been flushing them, one by one, feeling my mind gradually clear of the fog that's kept me compliant. Whatever cocktail of drugs Ward's been feeding me, it dulls the edges of my suspicion, makes his lies seem almost plausible.

Not anymore.

I wait until she leaves, then move to the bookshelf in Ward's study—the one room where the cameras have blind spots. I've mapped them all, timing my movements between the mechanical whir of the lenses. Three minutes between sweeps. Enough time.

The leather-bound volumes are arranged by color rather than content—aesthetic over function, typical Ward. But behind the pretentious first editions and financial texts, something catches my eye. A gap, almost invisible unless you're looking for it.

My fingers brush against something soft. A book, smaller than the others, its cover worn velvet. No title. I slide it out and flip it open.

A diary. The handwriting achingly familiar, yet not quite mine.

"September 15th—Ward asked me to marry him today. I said yes because it's easier than saying no. He doesn't see me when he looks at me. I wonder if he ever will."

The entries continue, growing more desperate with each page. This woman—this version of me—was drowning in plain sight.

"February 3rd—He called me Whitney again last night. I didn't correct him this time. Sometimes I wonder if I've forgotten who I am too."

Whitney. My name. But these aren't my memories.

The final entry sends ice through my veins:

"April 17th—Ward loves the idea of me, not who I am. I can't live as her shadow anymore. He'll understand soon enough. Whitney, if you're reading this, run. Ward Stevens destroys what he can't possess. And he's never possessed me."

It's signed: Claire.

Claire. The name from my dreams.

The sound of the front door opening sends me scrambling. I shove the diary back just as Ward strides in, his expression unreadable as always.

"Reading anything interesting?" he asks, his tone light but his eyes calculating.

"Just browsing." I force a smile. "You have quite the collection."

He moves closer, backing me against the shelves. "Find anything that spoke to you?"

"Nothing worth mentioning."

His fingers brush my cheek, trailing down to my neck in a gesture that could be affectionate if not for the pressure behind it. "I've been thinking," he says, "maybe we should renew our vows. Something intimate. Just to help you... reconnect with our love story."

The word "love" in his mouth sounds like a threat.

"I'd like some time," I say carefully. "To feel more like myself."

Something flickers in his eyes—disappointment? Anger? "Of course. Whatever you need."

That night, I lay awake long after Ward's breathing evens out. Claire's diary haunts me. Who was she? What happened to her? And why does Ward look at me like I'm both precious and disposable?

I need answers. And I know exactly how to get them.

The next morning, I wait until Ward leaves for his usual 8 AM meeting. Then I make my move.

The bathroom is the most surveilled room in the penthouse—a fact that would be perverse if it wasn't so useful now. I turn the shower on full blast, let the steam build until the camera lens fogs over. Then I position myself carefully near the marble edge of the tub.

One deep breath. Then I let myself fall.

The crash brings the security detail running. I lie still, hair fanned out in the puddle forming around me, eyes closed. Footsteps pound outside the door.

"Ma'am? Mrs. Stevens?"

I don't respond.

The door bursts open. Hands check my pulse, voices call for backup. Then—heavier footsteps, a familiar cologne.

"Get out," Ward orders. The security team vanishes instantly.

I feel him kneel beside me, his breath warm against my face. "Whitney?" For once, his voice holds something genuine—fear.

This is my moment.

I open my eyes slowly, letting them focus on his face with deliberate confusion. My expression shifts, softens into something that isn't mine. "Ward?" I whisper, making my voice higher, more vulnerable. "Is that you?"

His entire body goes rigid. "What did you say?"

I reach up, touch his face with trembling fingers. "You look... older. How long was I gone this time?"

Ward's pupils dilate, his breathing shallow. I've seen that look before—the night of the accident, when I'd confronted him about the missing client files. Pure, unfiltered shock.

"Claire?" The name falls from his lips like a prayer.

I smile, channeling the woman from my dreams. "I came back. For you."

For a fraction of a second, hope transforms his face into something almost human. Then his expression hardens. His hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my throat as he slams me against the wet tile wall.

"Whitney," he snarls, "don't play games you don't understand."

I gasp for air, clawing at his grip. "I don't—know what—you're talking about—"

His hold tightens. "Claire is dead. And you're playing with fire."

He releases me suddenly, and I collapse to the floor, coughing. Ward straightens his tie, composure returning like a mask sliding back into place.

"Clean yourself up," he says coldly. "We have dinner with the board tonight. Wear the blue dress."

After he leaves, I curl into myself on the bathroom floor, shaking not from the cold but from confirmation. Claire existed. Claire is dead. And somehow, I'm caught in the web they wove.

The next morning, a new maid I've never seen before delivers my breakfast tray. As she sets it down, she slips something under my napkin.

"From your personal effects, Mrs. Stevens," she murmurs. "Mr. Stevens asked me to return it."

When she's gone, I unfold the napkin. A sleek smartphone, not my usual model. The screen lights up without a passcode.

One unread message.

My heart stops when I see the name: Claire Taylor.

Sent three years ago, the night before my supposed wedding.

"Whitney, by the time you read this, it might be too late. Ward is dangerous. He sees me when he looks at you, and you when he looks at me. He can't tell us apart, not in the ways that matter. Don't trust him. Don't trust anyone. Small scar behind your left ear—remember how you got it? I don't have one. That's how you'll know. He's coming. I have to—"

The message cuts off abruptly.

My fingers fly to my left ear, finding the small raised line of tissue—a childhood accident involving a swing set. A detail so minor I'd forgotten it myself.

My sister. My twin. The woman from my dreams was real.

And Ward has been lying about everything.