The door clicked softly behind Stephen, leaving Raya standing alone in the cavernous, dimly lit bedroom. The soft hum of the central air and the ticking of the ornate clock on the wall were the only sounds in the stillness. Her hands hung at her sides, heavy as lead. Her legs, aching from the long day and from being tied up for hours, nearly buckled beneath her.
She took slow steps into the room, her eyes scanning the expensive furniture and the luxurious décor. Everything screamed wealth—from the silk drapes to the marble-topped vanity—and yet she felt colder than ever. She didn't belong here. This wasn't her world. Not even close.
Collapsing onto the edge of the bed, Raya buried her face in her palms. Her chest heaved as she tried to steady her breathing. She wasn't going to cry. She'd promised herself that a long time ago. Crying never helped anything.
But the image of her father, crying out in pain, flashed through her mind again. The sound of his scream echoed in her ears.
She clenched her fists.
How did it get to this?
She remembered the way Adrian had sat there, so composed, watching everything unfold like he was observing a business meeting. No flinch. No remorse. Just decisions. Orders. Cold commands.
She slowly stood and walked toward the full-length mirror by the dresser. Her reflection stared back at her: a pale face, lips cracked, eyes ringed with exhaustion. She barely recognized herself anymore. Faint red marks still circled her wrists where the ropes had bitten into her skin.
Her fingers twitched as she reached for her toothbrush and, remembering Stephen's words, she shifted it from her left to her right hand.
She brushed slowly, awkwardly, like a child learning a new skill. Her right hand was capable—she was ambidextrous, after all—but it felt unnatural. Every motion reminded her of what she had agreed to. What she was becoming.
Seraphina Hart.
Who was that woman? The name alone sounded like royalty. And yet, for some reason, they needed her to play that part. Not because she was worthy. Not because she wanted it. But because she looked like her.
"A decoy," she whispered bitterly to her reflection. "I'm nothing but a decoy. A substitute, perhaps."
She dropped the toothbrush into the sink and stared into her own eyes. Tears burned behind them. She blinked fast, furious at her own weakness.
But she couldn't take it anymore.
Raya slumped to the floor, her back pressed against the dresser. The tears finally came. Not in loud sobs. But in quiet, relentless rivers.
She wrapped her arms around her knees, rocking gently. Her mind spiraled with everything: her father's injury, the money, Adrian, Seraphina, and the terrifying thought of what came next.
She had always been a fighter. Always picked herself up, took extra shifts, laughed through pain, and hustled through hunger. But this? This was bigger than her.
She didn't even know the rules of the game she had just been forced into.
And yet, she had no choice now.
She had to become someone else.
Pretend to be someone else.
To protect the man who broke everything.
The room seemed colder now.
She reached up and wiped her face with trembling fingers. Then, slowly, she stood. Her legs were shaky, her heart bruised, but her eyes—though red-rimmed and glossy—held a flicker of fire.
"I'll do it. I have to do it," she murmured.
Not because Adrian Blake demanded it.
But because she couldn't let her father suffer again.
Even if it meant losing every piece of herself.
---
The morning light filtered through the tall windows of the guest bedroom. Despite the warmth of the sun, Raya felt cold. She had woken before dawn, as she always did—muscle memory from juggling multiple jobs and responsibilities.
She'd showered quickly, water running over the bruises and soreness left from the previous day. Her fingers brushed over the faint cuts around her wrists, now bandaged. She dressed in the same clothes she'd worn yesterday—wrinkled, stale, but it wasn't like she had a wardrobe here.
Her stomach twisted—not just from hunger, but from uncertainty.
A knock came at the door.
She didn't answer at first.
The door creaked open and a tall, lean man stepped in. His dark hair was slicked back, his expression unreadable.
"Mr. Blake requests you join him for breakfast," he said flatly.
"Thanks," Raya murmured.
"My name is Dante," he added. "You'll be seeing me often."
And with that, he turned and left.
---
Dining Room Scene
Raya hesitated at the archway of the grand dining hall. The table stretched endlessly across the room, and at the head sat Adrian Blake, already eating. His men flanked him, including the one who haunted her most—Grigor. The memory of him holding the knife to her father's hand was etched into her bones.
The second her eyes met his, she looked away.
None of the men were seated except Adrian. That alone told her the power dynamic. Quiet murmurs halted at her entrance.
She approached slowly, unsure where to stand.
"Sit," Adrian said without glancing up.
Raya lowered herself into the chair furthest from him, she certainly doesn't want to have anything to do with him.
A few of the men exchanged smirks.
"Miss Calder, come sit here," Stephen said, pulling out a chair beside Adrian.
Raya hesitated. Then stood and crossed the floor, perching uneasily next to the man who held her father's life in his hands.
Adrian said nothing at first, cutting through a piece of toast with surgical precision.
"Well?" he asked.
She blinked. "What?"
"Do I need to invite you to eat?"
She gave a stiff nod and reached for a banana. Without thinking, she used her left hand, peeling it as she always did.
Adrian's eyes flicked to her. "Are you left-handed?"
Raya froze. Oh God she has forgotten about her new found identity
She swallowed the lump in her throat. "I—I'm ambidextrous," she answered. "I use both… I just grew up using my left hand more." she explained
Silence. No one said anything.
Stephen tensed slightly. He had clearly told her to start using her right hand. But the girl just never seemed to listen.
Adrian dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "From now on, you'll use your right. Get used to it."
She nodded silently.
"And someone will be arriving today," he continued. "To begin your transformation into Seraphina Hart. Learn well."
He stood and, without waiting for a response, began walking away.
Raya summoned her courage, she definitely doesn't want to annoy him since her father life is still in his hands.
"Mr. Blake… please—can I see my father?"
Adrian didn't look back, nor did he reply. He disappeared down the corridor with Stephen following behind, along with the other men as if her question needs no answer.
Only Grigor remained, sitting at the table now. He picked at his food without looking at her, but his presence made her stomach twist.
Raya got up quickly, heart pounding, and hurried back toward the stairs. She didn't stop until she was back in the room.
She slammed the door shut behind her and leaned on it, breathing hard.
"Fuck Adrian" She muttered
---
An hour later
A sharp knock landed on the door just as Raya finished slipping her wrinkled clothes over her sore body.
She didn't answer. She didn't have the energy to.
The door creaked open anyway.
Grigor stood there, tall and imposing, dressed in all black. The same man who'd sliced her father's thumb off like it meant nothing. The sight of him made her stomach clench and her throat dry.
"It's time," he said, voice rough, face as unreadable as ever.
Raya nodded stiffly and stepped out into the hallway without protest. Her legs still ached from the day before. Her head pounded from lack of food and sleep, but she didn't dare say a word.
She followed him down the quiet hallways, her bare footsteps soft against the polished floors. Morning light filtered in through the tall windows, too golden for the dread sinking in her chest.
They walked in silence.
Her heart thudded harder with each step.
This mansion, for all its beauty, felt like a prison.
They stopped at a wide door she hadn't seen before. Grigor pushed it open and stepped aside for her to enter.
She hesitated for half a second, then walked in.
The room was minimalist and sterile—completely unlike the rest of the mansion. Large mirrors lined one side, polished wooden floors stretched beneath her, and in the middle stood a woman in her mid-forties. She wore a tailored black dress, her hair tied in a tight bun, and held a clipboard with the kind of grip that suggested she'd snap it in half if irritated.
Raya's breath caught in her throat.
"This is her?" the woman asked, looking at Raya without sparing Grigor a glance.
"She's the girl," he replied simply.
"I see," the woman murmured. "You may leave."
Grigor did, closing the door behind him with a dull click.
Raya suddenly felt small—like a student standing before a headmistress.
"I am Elena Monroe," the woman said crisply, finally looking up. Her accent was melodious to listen to, and her tone left no room for pleasantries. "I trained Seraphina Hart for over a decade. And now, unfortunately, I'm tasked with training her replacement."
Raya stood still, unsure if she was supposed to speak.
Another 'unfortunately'—as if she didn't deserve to stand in front of them.
"I don't care about your background," Elena continued. "I care about results. You may be used to surviving, Miss Calder, but Seraphina Hart does not survive. She commands."
Raya said nothing.
"We'll begin with posture. Then speech. Then behavior. Then style. You'll learn to walk like her, talk like her, move like her. Breathe like her. And we might need to do something about your eyes. By the time we're done, not even Seraphina's mother would doubt you."
Raya's stomach tightened.
It seemed this was the way her life was going to be now—
controlled by people who meant nothing to her.