The past few days had blurred into one another, a haze of exhaustion, grief, and relentless responsibility. For Sofia Green, or rather, Elena Grayson trapped inside her body, life had become a cruel performance. She spent hours pouring over documents, memorizing family connections, shareholders' names, and strategies, just to blend seamlessly into the world of the Greens.
The more she studied, the more she realized the enormity of her new burden. Sofia Green wasn't just an heiress. She was the face of the Green empire. Every movement, every word, every glance of hers was scrutinized by the press, investors, and employees alike. The wrong slip could topple billions.
And yet, behind closed doors, she was still Elena. Hiring private investigators under layers of anonymity, piecing together sketches of the man who had ended her old life. She had stared at the image for hours, trying to sharpen the details, but every attempt felt incomplete. Cub, her killer, was too good at covering his tracks.
"Damn it…" Sofia muttered under her breath as she slammed the file shut. Frustration sat heavy on her chest. She could feel her grief lurking just beneath the surface, ready to overwhelm her at the smallest trigger. At night she would cry silently into the silk pillows of her penthouse bed, longing for Alex's embrace, her mother's gentle voice, or even her father's stern lectures. But when the morning came, she forced herself into a mask of composure and carried on.
Today, though, she allowed herself a break.
---
The restaurant she chose was nestled in the upscale heart of Autumn Hill City, famous for catering to politicians, tycoons, and celebrities. The entrance was grand but not ostentatious: tall glass doors framed in polished bronze, guarded by two uniformed men who nodded respectfully as she entered.
Inside, the ambiance was designed to soothe and impress. Chandeliers of crystal droplets hung from the high ceilings, refracting light into warm golden patterns across the marble floors. The air carried the faint aroma of roasted coffee beans and freshly baked pastries, mingling with the subtle fragrance of lilies placed in sleek vases at every table.
The furniture spoke of quiet luxury: mahogany tables gleaming under the lights, each paired with plush leather chairs that sank just enough when sat upon. Velvet drapes framed the tall windows, offering glimpses of the bustling city outside while still preserving the cocoon of refinement within, and a soft symphony played from invisible speakers, just loud enough to soothe, never to intrude.
It was the kind of place where whispers carried more weight than shouts. And today, every whisper was about her.
Sofia sat by the corner window, laptop open, flipping through proposals from corporations begging for partnerships. Her dark hair shimmered under the light, her posture effortlessly regal, her expression unreadable. It was the sort of image tabloids would pay fortunes for.
And sure enough, she felt it. The weight of countless eyes on her.
"Hey… isn't that Sofia Green?" a young man muttered from a nearby table.
"Damn, she looks even hotter in person," his friend replied, trying, and failing, to be discreet as he angled his phone to snap a picture.
Flashes of cameras caught in the reflection of the windows confirmed her suspicion. Sofia exhaled slowly, forcing her shoulders to relax. "This is my life now," she thought bitterly. "Every move, every sip, every breath… on display."
When the waiter passed by, she lifted a hand. But instead of a waiter, a woman in a crisp white dress approached. Her smile was polished, her heels clicking softly against the marble.
"Good day, Miss Sofia. Is there anything you'd like?" the woman asked warmly.
Sofia tilted her head, studying her. "You don't look like a waiter."
The woman chuckled lightly. "That's because I'm not. I'm the manager here. I couldn't possibly let a mere waiter serve you."
Sofia managed a faint smile, though inwardly she bristled. "I'd better start getting used to this. Everyone in Autumn Hill treats me like I'm untouchable. I can't slip, not even once," she thought, before replying aloud, "Just something simple. I'll have an espresso with cream."
"Right away, Miss Sofia."
The manager herself brought the order minutes later, placing the cup before her with a small bow. " It's on the house, miss. Is there anything else you'd like?"
"No, this will do. Thank you."
When Sofia lifted the porcelain cup, the rich aroma instantly reached her nose. The first sip confirmed what her tongue already knew. This wasn't just coffee. It was exquisite, balanced perfectly between strength and smoothness. She almost laughed. "They probably brewed this cup just for me."
She tried to refocus on her laptop, on the endless rows of numbers and offers, but the flicker of movement caught her eye. Above the bar, a large flat-screen TV had been switched on. The screen bathed the restaurant in soft light.
"The manager," Sofia realized. "She did that for me."
And then her heart stopped.
On the screen was a familiar face. Not hers, not Sofia Green's, but Elena Grayson's. The reporter's voice rang out, calm yet weighted with significance:
"… and the ongoing investigation into the shocking murder of Elena Grayson continues. Just this morning, authorities released security footage showing a hooded man in ragged clothing walking near the crime scene around the time of the assassination. Investigators believe this individual may have played a role in the attack…"
Sofia froze, her hand tightening around her cup. Her throat ran dry, her pulse quickened. She leaned forward, every nerve straining toward the words on the screen.
The restaurant had grown silent. Curious diners turned their heads toward the broadcast, whispers echoing softly. But Sofia heard nothing. Nothing but the reporter's voice slicing through the air.
"… and according to Maxwell Grayson, the funeral of Elena Grayson will be held in two days' time at Fleming's Cemetery."
The cup slipped from Sofia's trembling hand, clattering against the saucer. Espresso spilled across the table, a dark stain spreading over the papers she'd been working on. But she didn't care.
Her world stopped.
My funeral.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat a deafening drum. Her stomach knotted, her breath hitched, her vision blurred with tears that burned hot behind her eyes.
"They're going to bury me," she whispered under her breath. "They're going to bury Elena Grayson."
The irony stung deeper than any wound. She was alive. More alive than ever, yet the world had already written her obituary. Her parents, her Alex, the entire country… mourning her while she sat here in borrowed skin.
Her fingers dug into the table edge, knuckles pale. Every instinct screamed at her to run to them, to cry out that she wasn't gone, that she was still here. But she couldn't. She was Sofia Green now.
And Sofia Green could never attend Elena Grayson's funeral.
But Sofia couldn't stay put, knowing that there would be a change where she could see her loved ones. Sofia was going to attend the funeral.