Mistaken Identity: Loving The Wrong Twin Sister

Ava Miller POV I didn't leave immediately. I couldn't. My grandfather, the Old Don of the Miller family, had summoned me. If I didn't show, he would know something was wrong before I could even clear the city limits. The Blackwood Family Foundation Gala was the event of the season. Every crime boss, corrupt politician, and money launderer in the state was there, clinking crystal glasses and pretending to be civilized. I wore black. It felt appropriate for a funeral. Because that's what this was. The funeral of my fake life. I stood by the champagne tower, alone. Donovan wasn't here. He was still on the "business trip" that everyone knew was a romantic getaway with Chloe. Whispers followed me like smoke. *Where is he?* *She can't keep a man.* *Pathetic.* A hand clamped onto my elbow. It was bony, cold, and strong. I turned to see my grandfather. His eyes were like coal, hard and unyielding. "Where is your husband?" he hissed. "He is working," I lied, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. "Liar." A young cousin of mine, a girl of sixteen with eyes too sharp for her age, walked past us. She held up her phone, a cruel smirk playing on her lips. "Did you see this?" she giggled. "It's trending." She showed the screen to my grandfather. It was a new photo. Donovan and Chloe, kissing on the deck of a yacht. The timestamp was two hours ago. The ballroom seemed to go silent. My grandfather's grip on my arm tightened until I felt a bruise forming beneath the silk of my sleeve. "Come with me," he said. He dragged me out of the ballroom and into a private study reserved for the family elite. He shoved me inside. I stumbled but caught myself on the edge of a heavy mahogany desk. "You are embarrassing this family," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I can't control him," I said quietly. "You are his wife! You are a Miller! You are supposed to be strong!" He raised his cane. I didn't flinch. I had learned a long time ago that flinching made it worse. He struck me across the legs. The wood cracked against my shin with a sickening thud. Pain shot up my body, white and hot. I bit my lip until I tasted copper to keep from screaming. "Fix this," he spat, looming over me. "Or next time, I won't use the cane. I'll use a bullet." He left me there. I waited until the pain subsided to a dull throb before I limped out the back exit. I took a taxi back to the Blackwood Estate and dragged myself up the stairs to my room. The door opened. Donovan was there. He was sitting on my bed, head in his hands. He looked tired. He saw my limp. He saw the tear in my stocking where the cane had hit. "What happened?" he asked. I sat on the vanity stool, turning away from him. "I fell," I said. Donovan stood up. He walked over to me and crouched down. He reached out, his fingers warm as they brushed the red mark on my shin. "Who did this?" he asked, his voice tight. "It doesn't matter," I said. "You were busy." He flinched. He actually flinched. "I was working," he said automatically. I looked at him. "I know," I said. I knew he was lying. He knew I knew. He stood up and ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "I'll call the doctor," he said. "No," I said. "I'm fine." He lingered in the doorway. He looked like he wanted to say something. But he didn't. He left. Three days later, he dragged me out of the house. He was angry about the rumors. Not because they hurt me, but because they made him look like he couldn't control his household. He took me to a boutique downtown. "Pick something," he ordered. "We have a dinner tonight. You need to look... alive." He treated me like a doll. I tried on a red dress. It was tight. It showed too much skin. Donovan stared at me in the mirror. His eyes darkened. For a second, there was heat in his gaze. Then he looked out the window. His body went rigid. Chloe. She was walking across the street. She looked upset, crying into a phone. Donovan dropped the bags he was holding. He didn't say a word to me. He ran out of the store. "Donovan!" I called out. I followed him to the door. He was running across the street toward her. Chloe looked up. She saw him and stopped in the middle of the road, putting on a face of tragic betrayal. Above her, construction scaffolding groaned ominously. The metal snapped. A pile of steel pipes and concrete debris tipped over the edge, falling straight for her. Donovan screamed her name. He didn't look at traffic. He didn't look at me. He dove. He tackled her, covering her body with his own as the world crashed down around them.