Mistaken Identity: Loving The Wrong Twin Sister

Ava Miller POV I woke up on the hardwood floor. The sun was streaming through the hallway window, a harsh, white glare that blinded me. My head felt like it had been split open with an axe. A dull, throbbing rhythm beat against my skull. I tried to sit up, but the room spun violently. I groaned, clutching my temples. A pair of polished black shoes stepped into my line of sight. Donovan. He was dressed in a fresh suit, looking immaculate, as if he hadn't just assaulted his wife. He loomed over me, his eyes void of sympathy. "Get up," he said. I blinked, trying to clear the fog clouding my vision. "I think I have a concussion," I whispered. He laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound, devoid of humor. "Chloe has a scratch on her arm because of your threats," he said. "You'll live." He reached down and grabbed my upper arm, his fingers digging into the tender flesh. He hauled me to my feet with a brutal jerk. I swayed, grabbing the banister for support as black spots danced in my vision. Nausea rolled in my stomach. "Get dressed," he ordered. "We are going to her penthouse." "Why?" I asked. My voice was raspy, foreign to my own ears. "To apologize," he said. I stared at him. He was serious. He wanted his wife to apologize to his mistress for a threat I never made. "I didn't do anything," I said. His grip tightened on my arm until I winced. "Don't lie to me, Isabella. I know how your family operates. You think you own everything. You think you can bully her." He was projecting. He was seeing my sister. He wasn't seeing me. I looked at the clock on the wall. The transfer time was approaching. The money should be in the account any minute now. I just needed to get away from him. "Fine," I said, my tone hollow. "I'll apologize." He released me with a shove. "Ten minutes." I dressed in a simple grey dress. I didn't bother with makeup to cover the bruise blooming on my temple. Let him see it. Let everyone see what the great Donovan Blackwood did to his wife. The car ride was silent, suffocating. Donovan tapped away on his phone, ignoring me as if I were luggage. We arrived at a luxury high-rise downtown. Chloe opened the door. She was wearing a silk robe that cost more than my first car. She saw me and gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in a theatrical display of shock. "Donovan," she whimpered. "Why is she here? I'm scared." It was such a bad performance. I almost laughed. But Donovan bought it. He stepped between us, shielding her from a threat that didn't exist. "She's here to make it right," he said gently to her. Then his voice hardened as he looked at me. "Say it." I looked at Chloe. She peeked out from behind Donovan's shoulder. A smirk curled the corner of her lips. She wasn't scared. She was winning. "I'm sorry," I said. My voice was flat, dead. "For what?" Donovan demanded. "For scaring you," I recited. "It won't happen again." Chloe let out a shaky breath. "Thank you," she whispered. "I just... I want us to get along." Donovan kissed her forehead. "You're too good, Chloe." He turned to me. "Since you're here, you can help her. The maid called in sick. Chloe needs help getting ready for lunch." I stared at him. "You want me to clean?" "Penance," he said. He sat on the sofa and opened a newspaper, dismissing me completely. I spent the next hour steaming Chloe's dress. I fetched her water. I picked up her discarded clothes from the floor. I felt like a hollow shell, but inside, I was counting down the seconds. A maid walked in to bring coffee. She saw me on my knees, buckling Chloe's strappy sandals. She leaned in to whisper to another servant, her voice low but audible. "Mrs. Blackwood must love him so much to endure this," she said. "It's tragic." Donovan looked up. He heard it. He looked at me. I was still on my knees. I didn't look angry. I didn't look proud. I just looked tired. For a second, confusion flashed in his eyes. He expected Isabella to scream. To throw the shoes. He wanted the fire, not the ash. My silence unsettled him. He stood up abruptly. "We're leaving," he told Chloe. "What about her?" Chloe pointed a manicured nail at me. "She stays," Donovan said. "She can walk home." It was five miles to the estate. "Okay," I said. Donovan paused at the door. He looked back at me, a frown marring his perfect features. "Why do you do it?" he asked. "Do what?" "Stay." I looked him in the eye. "Because I made a promise," I said. He didn't understand. He thought I meant wedding vows. I meant the contract with my father. He shook his head and left. I waited until the elevator chimed. Then I took out my phone. I checked my bank account. Fifty million dollars. Cleared. I let out a sob that was half-laugh, half-cry. I walked out of the penthouse. I didn't go home. I went to a pharmacy and bought a burner SIM card. Then I checked the news. A photo popped up. Donovan and Chloe on a yacht. The headline read: *Don Blackwood and Chloe Rekindle Romance. Wife nowhere in sight.* I looked at his face in the photo. He was smiling at her. He never smiled at me. I felt a strange sensation in my chest. It wasn't jealousy. It was relief. He was distracted. He wouldn't notice I was gone until it was too late.