My Daughter Is Actually the Fake Heiress

: Switched at Birth

The daughter I'd doted on for over twenty years turned out to be a fake—switched at birth.

My biological daughter showed up at our door, so stubbornly fragile it made my heart ache.

The fake heiress declared that if the real one stayed, she would leave.

My husband threatened me, "If you insist on keeping her, then you can get out of this house."

I laughed.

You must have misunderstood something. This house is mine, and so is the company.

You're the ones who should get out.

1

It was a rare weekend off. My darling daughter had been begging me to spend time with her every day, so I finally cleared my schedule for her.

I sat on a lounge chair in the front garden, my gaze soft as I watched my darling daughter beside me, as well as my husband, who was well into middle age and developing a potbelly...

'No need to look at him for now.'

'He's truly an offense to my appreciation for beautiful things.'

I subtly shifted my gaze away, only to suddenly spot a frail, pale young girl standing outside the villa's iron gate.

The distance was a bit too far for me to see her face clearly.

But the instant I saw her silhouette, a sharp pain, like a knife to the heart, shot through me.

It was as if a long-lost treasure had finally returned to me.

I shot to my feet, losing my composure as I called for the housekeeper.

"Housekeeper! The girl at the gate—let her in, quickly!"

The housekeeper, who had been standing by, heard me and walked straight out to escort the person in without a single question.

"Mom?"

Jasmine Quinn looked at me in confusion, a hint of anxiety hidden in her eyes.

Quentin Quinn also turned to look at me, a strange light flickering in the depths of his eyes.

Neither of them could understand my sudden outburst.

But I ignored them, my gaze fixed on the girl the housekeeper was leading in.

She had a frail figure and was dressed simply. Her face was pale, her lips even paler. She looked as if a gust of wind could blow her over.

But her striking features, and the mix of calm and ferocity in her eyes, were exactly like mine when I was young.

A lump formed in my throat. Staring at the face that was an eighty-percent match to my own, my heart trembled.

"What's your name?"

"Anya Morley."

The girl's voice was detached. After her quiet reply, her icy gaze zeroed in on Jasmine Quinn, who was standing beside me.

"I assume you've already guessed. I'm your biological daughter, and this one beside you is nothing but an imposter."

Her tone was icy and full of hostility.

Her words instantly stunned everyone present.

My first reaction was that she was lying. But looking at her—her words, her actions, her appearance—I couldn't find a single thing about her that wasn't like me.

Jasmine Quinn, on the other hand... perhaps because she'd been coddled her whole life, had grown into an incredibly spoiled young woman. She would burst into tears over the slightest thing and expect me to handle it.

She wasn't like me in the slightest.

After a long moment, everyone finally snapped out of their stupor.

As expected, Jasmine Quinn was the first to react, throwing herself into my arms, sobbing pitifully.

"Mom! She's lying! I'm your real daughter, I am!"

My husband was the second to speak up.

"Jasmine, don't cry. You'll always be our child. No one else will ever take your place."

I raised an eyebrow slightly. There was something in his words, a hidden meaning I couldn't quite place.

But before I had a chance to think about it, Quentin Quinn suddenly waved his hand.

"Someone! Get her out of here!"

Quentin Quinn was pointing, of course, at Anya Morley, who stood before us.