The Favored Fake Daughter Fears My Return

"Partners are assigned by household," Mr. Mercer announced, tapping his marker against the whiteboard. "No exceptions."

I slumped in my molded plastic chair. "I work alone."

"Not at Crestview, you don't," Mercer replied, not even looking up from his attendance sheet.

Clara slid into the empty seat beside me. She smelled like expensive vanilla and victory.

"I would be honored to guide my sister," Clara told the teacher, her voice sickeningly sweet.

"Excellent, Clara. I expect great things from the Veyra girls."

I turned to her the second Mercer walked away. "I don't need your help."

"You need a miracle to pass this class," Clara whispered, the sugary tone vanishing. "Have you ever even seen a microscope?"

"I went to a real school, Clara. Not a country club."

"Good. Then you can do the research." She slammed a heavy textbook onto my desk. "But I present it. You will stand in the back and keep your mouth shut."

"I'm not your assistant."

Clara leaned closer. Her perfectly manicured nails dug into my forearm. "Dad told his lawyers to draft the purchase papers for your little diner this morning. One text from me, and your old boss loses his business."

My jaw tightened. I stared at her fingers digging into my skin. "You're bluffing."

"Call him," Clara challenged. "Ask him about the sudden buyout offer from Veyra Holdings."

I jerked my arm away. The cold, crushing weight settled in my chest again, exactly like yesterday in the foyer. She knew exactly where to twist the knife.

"Fine," I muttered. "You present."

Clara beamed, turning back to the front of the classroom. "We are going to get an A, sister."

That was just Monday.

The forced pairings didn't stop at the classroom door. Julian mandated we attend the Mayor's luncheon together. Eleanor made us co-host the autumn charity drive. Everywhere I went, Clara was glued to my side. In public, she linked our arms, fixing my hair and playing the benevolent savior. In private, she stole the microphone, intercepted my conversations, and reminded me that I was one mistake away from ruining the lives of everyone I left behind in the Narrows.

By Friday night, I was suffocating.

The Crystal Pavilion hummed with the chatter of the city's elite. Waiters in white gloves carried silver trays of caviar. I stood near the ice sculpture, tugging at the itchy lace collar of another borrowed dress.

"Don't touch the fabric," Clara ordered, appearing out of nowhere. "You'll ruin the embroidery."

"It's already ruining my neck," I told her.

"Endure it." She grabbed a glass of sparkling water from a passing tray. "The governor is walking over here. Smile."

"I'm not a show pony."

"You are whatever this family pays you to be," Clara snapped.

A tall, balding man in a gray suit approached us. Clara instantly transformed. Her posture softened, and a brilliant smile stretched across her face.

"Governor Davis," Clara greeted, extending a hand. "Thank you so much for coming to our fundraiser."

"Clara, my dear. Always a pleasure." The governor shook her hand, then shifted his gaze to me. "And this must be the new addition."

I opened my mouth to introduce myself.

Clara cut me off. "This is Elara. She is still terribly shy. The transition has been so hard on her, but we are doing everything we can to make her feel welcome."

"Such a big heart," Davis praised, patting Clara's shoulder. "Your parents must be so proud."

"We just want her to heal," Clara said, casting a pitying look my way.

I turned my back on them and walked away.

"Elara!" Clara called out, her voice laced with fake concern.

I didn't stop. I pushed through the crowd of wealthy donors, ignoring the sharp glares of Eleanor's friends. I needed air. I needed silence.

I slipped through a set of heavy mahogany doors, leaving the noisy ballroom behind. The corridor was dim, lined with oil paintings and silent, closed doors. I ducked into the first open room I found.

It was a private study. Leather couches, walls of books, and a massive oak desk filled the space.

I collapsed onto the nearest sofa and kicked off my stiff shoes. The quiet wrapped around me, easing the tight knot in my stomach.

The door creaked open.

"You cannot keep running away," Clara said, stepping into the dim light. She shut the door firmly behind her.

"Watch me," I replied, staring at the ceiling.

"Mom is furious. You just insulted the governor."

"I didn't say a word to him."

"Exactly." Clara crossed the room, stopping at the edge of the desk. "You make us look bad just by standing there. Do you know what people are whispering about you?"

"I don't care."

"They say you're defective," Clara taunted. "They say Julian should have left you in the gutter."

I sat up, planting my bare feet on the rug. "If I'm so defective, why do you follow me everywhere? Why do you care what I do?"

Clara’s eyes narrowed. "Because you are a threat to my perfect life. I spent eighteen years building my place in this family. I won't let some feral street rat ruin it."

"I don't want your life!" I shouted, my voice echoing off the bookshelves. "I just want to be left alone!"

"Then act like a shadow," Clara demanded. "Stop fighting me. Stop trying to prove you belong here. You don't."

She turned and marched toward the exit.

"I'll tell them you got sick," Clara threw over her shoulder. "Stay in here until the party is over."

The door clicked shut.

I let out a long, ragged exhale. My hands shook slightly as I rubbed my temples. I needed to find a way out of this house. I needed money, a plan, anything.

I stood up and walked over to the heavy oak desk, leaning my weight against the polished wood.

A glowing screen caught my attention.

Someone had left a tablet charging on a small stand near the desk lamp. The screen was awake, displaying a grid of images.

I leaned closer.

My stomach dropped.

It was a private cloud folder. The title at the top read *Project E*.

I tapped the first image. It expanded, filling the screen.

It was a photo of me from the ballroom an hour ago. I was scratching my neck, my face twisted in discomfort. The angle was high, perfectly framing my awkward posture against the elegant backdrop of the wealthy guests.

I swiped to the next photo.

Me dropping a fork at the family dinner on Tuesday.

Swipe.

Me looking confused in biology class, staring at the textbook.

Swipe.

A zoomed-in shot of my scuffed sneakers from my very first day in the foyer.

Dozens of pictures. Hundreds. Every single moment I looked stupid, out of place, or miserable. None of them were taken by random students. The quality was too high. The angles were too precise.

Someone was meticulously documenting my failure.

I tapped the account icon in the top right corner, desperate to see who owned the folder.

The profile loaded.

A single name appeared on the screen.

Before I could process it, the study door swung open again.

"What are you looking at?" a deep, familiar voice asked.

I spun around, knocking the tablet flat onto the desk.

Silas Thorne stood in the doorway.