When I called them back, they answered on the third ring. I asked where she was.
"We buried her," they said.
My heart stopped.
"Who are you?" I demanded.
They hung up.
I kept calling—again and again—gripped by desperation, refusing to believe Madison was truly gone. Tears blurred my vision. My hands trembled. She was my only family.
After twenty unanswered calls, a message came through. A photo.
My breath caught.
Madison lay in a coffin, her skin pale, tinged with blue. Lifeless. Gone.
I froze in the middle of the street, the cold wind cutting through me like a blade. I didn't move. Couldn't. Not until midnight, when I finally turned off Madison's phone and forced myself to walk home—alone.
I heard the soft static of the TV as my unsteady feet dragged me to the front door of my apartment. I paused, forcing myself to breathe, to hold it together. The night had begun with me screaming in Evan's face—and ended with the death of the only family I had left. If Evan so much as looked at me the wrong way, I wasn't sure I could stop myself from walking to the top of the nearest building and letting gravity do the rest.
I opened the door and stepped into the living room.
Then froze.
Everything was… clean.
The pizza box was gone. The empty beer bottles—gone. The coffee table gleamed like it had just been wiped down. The couch cushions were perfectly arranged. Even the floor had been vacuumed spotless.
But what truly stopped me cold was the sight of my husband, standing at the kitchen sink, sleeves rolled up, quietly washing the dishes.
I stepped inside, hesitating just long enough to glance behind me—half-wondering if I'd walked into the wrong apartment. Everything felt off. Too… clean. I shut the door quietly.
He didn't notice me at first. One earbud in, head slightly bobbing. Then he did a double-take, pulled the earbud out, and scowled at me.
"Where the hell have you been all night?" he snapped, voice tight with irritation.
The audacity of this unemployed man-child to sound pissed at me.
I blinked, my gaze drifting around the room. "Who cleaned?" My voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper.
"Who do you think?" he shot back, like he deserved a standing ovation for basic hygiene.
He softened, just a touch. "Where were you? I was… I was worried sick."
I arched a brow. Evan? Worried sick? Since when?
I cleared my throat. "I was at Rita's."
"I went to Rita's. She said you left hours ago. In a hurry."
Oh.
"Uhm…"
The memory of Julien's bar flashed through my mind. His voice. His hands. My own skin, bare before him.
The realization of it hit me like cold water.
I cheated on Evan.
"I went for a walk," I said, almost too fast.
Evan narrowed his eyes. "You left at five. It's midnight now. What kind of walk lasts seven hours?"
"Jesus," I snapped, anger rising fast. "Can you shut the fuck up for once and stop nagging me like I owe you something?"
He fell silent, lips pressed together, eyes shaded with something that almost looked like guilt. It was strange. First the cleaning, now the lack of questions about my very obvious lie.
Then, his gaze dropped.
He noticed the dress.
His brows shot up briefly… then settled.
"Do I even want to know how you got that?"
Thank God I'd tossed the wig in a trash can on my way home.
"No," I muttered. "You don't."
He scoffed. "Of course. Do whatever the hell you want."
I squinted at him, suspicion crawling up my spine. Was he playing nice because he took something?
I turned toward the bedroom, flipping on the light switch.
A sharp gasp escaped me.
A figure lay curled on the bed—sound asleep.
Evan's mother.
I stormed back into the kitchen, fury pulsing behind my ribs. He was still pretending to clean.
"What the fuck is going on in there?!"
He glanced up, one earbud in. I yanked it out.
"I said—what the fuck is your mother doing in our bed?!"
"Oh. That…" he said, with that fake-innocent smile that made my skin crawl.
"That? Don't tell me she was discharged."
He didn't answer.
"Oh, God. You brought her here? Evan—send her back!"
"Are you crazy?! That's my mother!"
"Yes, I'm crazy!" I shouted, voice cracking. "I'm not cleaning up after your mother's feces again! Send that old hag back!"
Then it came—fast and violent.
A slap cracked across my face. Sharp. Sudden.
I staggered.
Stunned.
My hand lifted on instinct to return it, but he caught my wrist mid-air and shoved me hard. I crashed onto the floor, landing on my hip with a sick thud.
"Don't you ever speak about my mother like that again, you miserable slut!"
My mouth parted, trembling. "What…?"
"You think I'm blind, Penelope?" he growled. "You don't think I can smell another man on you?"
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"He fucked you, didn't he?" His voice was a low snarl. "Gave you some cash for the night, yeah?"
I swallowed, unable to form a single word.
"How long have you been doing this?" he sneered. "How long have you been whoring around while living under my roof? While carrying my child? Is that why you lost it?"
I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.
"I thought if I cleaned, if I didn't say a word, you'd come to your senses. But I forgot who I married."
His roof?
I've been the one paying rent since we moved in. He only ever paid once.
He stepped closer, voice icy. "Now listen—until I get the money to admit her again, you'll take care of my mother. You'll clean up after her. Is that clear?"
He didn't wait for a response.
He turned and walked away, leaving me crumpled on the floor, my cheek burning, and my eyes flooded with tears.
I slept in the living room—like I always did when his mother was around. No blanket, of course. Just me curled up on the stiff couch, shivering through the night.
By the time I woke, sunlight had already crept through the blinds. Evan was lounging against the bed chair, eyes glued to the TV, shoving cold pizza into his mouth like some low-budget king.
It was the weekend. I had a shift later this afternoon, and I usually spent weekend mornings at the gym. But after a night spent twisting on that awful couch, every bone in my body ached. The gym wasn't happening today.
I glanced down.
Still in the red dress.
God. I needed to burn this thing. It still carried Julien's scent.
How had I not realized Evan would pick up on that?
I sat up, reaching for my phone—no, Madison's phone. I powered it on as I slowly made my way to the kitchen.
And froze.
The sight hit me like a punch to the stomach.
Three mugs with stale coffee crusting over. The worktop smeared with what looked like butter and ketchup. And—
My breath caught.
My loaf of bread—the whole loaf—was soaking in the sink under the running tap.
I'd bought that family-sized bread just yesterday. It was supposed to last me the week. Toast every morning. My small comfort.
Gone.
I stormed back into the living room, voice hoarse. "What happened to my bread?"
Evan didn't even look at me. "Dunno. I think Mama soaked it."
"Soaked all of it?" I asked, barely above a whisper.
"Yeah. Sorry—yes!" He whooped suddenly, fist-pumping the air at whatever was happening on the screen. "Get it this time, man!"
I stared at him, stomach knotting.
Madison's phone buzzed in my hand. Charged now. I glanced at the screen.
Seventy-nine missed calls.
From Julien.
And twenty unread messages—all asking where I was, if I was safe.
Another call came in.
Julien's name flashed across the screen.
"Oh, by the way," Evan said, still not looking at me, "make breakfast for Mom and give her a bath. You know the drill. Just reminding you."
I stared at the back of his head, rage building like a tidal wave.
"Go fuck yourself," I muttered. "And your mother."
He didn't hear me—too busy yelling at the TV.
I swiped to answer Julien's call and stepped out into the corridor, leaving behind the mess.
"Jesus Christ, where the hell have you been, Madison?"
That rich, smoky French accent slid through the phone like velvet, brushing over my nerves like a balm. For a second, I forgot how to breathe.
"Hi," I managed, barely.
"You disappeared. I've been losing my mind. I almost deployed my entire security team to track your phone."
His voice was calm, but sharp underneath—like a blade wrapped in silk.
I swallowed hard, throat tight.
"I'm sorry. I—I didn't mean to worry you."
"Then don't. Just tell me where you are. I'll come get you."
Shit.
"No. Julien, wait—I have to tell you something first."
Madison… the real Madison… is dead.
"Alright," he said, quieter now. "But can't it wait? Not seeing you, not touching you—it's driving me insane."
"No. It has to be now."
A pause. A breath.
"Go ahead."
Before I could say another word, a loud cheer erupted from the other room. Evan. Probably watching a game. The door slammed open and I threw a hand over the phone speaker, muffling it.
Evan stood in the doorway, eyes narrowing.
"Are you calling another one of your regulars? Cancel it. And go clean up after my mother—she pissed herself."
He turned and left without waiting for a reply.
I stared at the door for a long second, jaw clenched, then lifted the phone back to my ear.
"Julien? Come get me," I said coldly. "California Dream Hotel. One hour."
Julien didn't ask questions. His voice was cool, low, lethal.
"Done. I'll be there."
I hung up, my hands trembling.
Screw this life. Time to get that ten billion dollars.
I rushed back inside and changed into a casual tank top and a pair of denim jeans. Evan shouted from the hallway, demanding I clean up after his mother. I ignored him and stepped out—but then a wicked thought struck me.
Smirking, I strolled back into the room, grabbed a hammer from the corner, and smashed the TV screen just as his precious game flickered across it. The screen cracked in a burst of sparks. Evan was still in the bathroom; he didn't hear a thing. Only his mother witnessed it, staring at me with a blank, unreadable expression.
Then I walked out—for real this time.
My first stop was the boutique. I picked out a mauve-pink mini dress with an asymmetrical slit and delicate ruffles along the side. Spaghetti straps hugged my shoulders. It cost a small fortune—nearly drained my bank account—but I didn't care. God help me, but before Julien figured out the truth, I'd steal from him first. I wasn't leaving this charade empty-handed.
The dress fit like a second skin.
Next, I hit the salon. I had my hair dyed a flawless shade of blonde, then styled into a sleek bun. When they handed me the mirror, even I barely recognized myself. It looked like Madison—but more refined. Prettier. Sharper.
Finally, I headed to the California Dream Hotel, arriving precisely three minutes before the one-hour deadline I'd given Julien.
Two minutes later, a sleek black Mercedes-Benz SUV pulled up.
Julien stepped out of the blacked-out SUV with the kind of effortless grace that could silence a room. Clad in a fitted black polo, tucked neatly into tailored black trousers and cinched with a sleek designer belt, he was a vision of cool restraint. His jet-black hair was slicked back, slightly parted at the side, the style only emphasizing the sharp angles of his face. He looked clean—calculated perfection.
Oh, shame on you, Evan.
Before I could form a single word, Julien wrapped me in his arms. His scent—lemon laced with leather—hit me instantly, clinging to my senses like it had every right to be there.
When he finally pulled away, his palm cupped my cheek gently.
"Don't ever disappear on me like that again," he murmured, voice low and rough with something close to worry.
He didn't even ask where I'd been.
Instead, he reached for my hand, lacing our fingers together with surprising tenderness. Without a word, he led me to the waiting Benz jeep, opened the door, and motioned for me to get in. I hesitated only a second before climbing in—too fast, too carelessly. My dress rode up scandalously.
But when I glanced behind to see if anyone had noticed, Julien was already there—positioned perfectly in front of me, shielding me like a shadow.
He slid in beside me and shut the door. The driver, a broad-shouldered man, turned to glance at Julien.
"Give us a minute," Julien said, not unkindly.
The man nodded, stepped out, and closed the door with a quiet thunk.
The second we were alone, Julien's hand found my jaw and tilted it up. His mouth crashed down on mine. The kiss wasn't gentle. It was raw, devouring—like he'd been waiting too long and had no intention of going slow.
The sound of our kiss filled up the SUV. Wet lips on wet lips. Tongue licking and rummaging.
I barely had time to breathe, to think. All I could do was feel.
This wasn't Evan's kiss. This wasn't tender or safe. This was Julien—dangerous, addictive, possessive.
He broke the kiss just enough to whisper against my lips, "Why did you leave last night?"
His hand slid to my exposed thigh. I tensed, forcing a swallow.
"I needed air. Just to clear my head."
His gaze softened. "Is something bothering you, baby? Is it the Lauriot launch?"
I blinked. Lauriot?
"I can have Georgia take it off your plate if it's too much."
I nodded faintly, not trusting my voice.
"And if it's about my mother's birthday dinner tomorrow, I can make an excuse for you—"
"Birthday dinner?" I said too fast.
He arched a brow. "Yes."
"Oh. Right." I quickly recovered. "No, it's fine. I… I can make it."
Why did I say that?
His eyes lingered on mine. "Okay. Then what else could be weighing on you?"
My heart thudded. This was my chance.
"Can you… help me send some money to my sister?" I said cautiously.
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly.
Shit. Madison never asked for money, did she?
"How much?" he asked, voice unreadable.
I hesitated. "About 100,000 euros."
A beat of silence. I didn't dare meet his eyes. My fingers clenched on my lap.
Then he said—calmly, without flinching, "Okay. Send me the details."
No questions. No suspicion. No hint of doubt.
The driver stepped in after a subtle nod from Julien, and the car purred to life, gliding into motion. He was on the phone, speaking in low, fluid French—his voice deep, effortlessly commanding. I sat beside him, fidgeting with the hem of my dress, nerves tangling like vines in my stomach.
Was I really doing this? Becoming my sister… in every sense of the word?
We were headed to his estate—home. A place I'd been only for few minutes yet one that already felt like dangerous territory. Last night, we'd almost crossed a line, and we'd barely been alone for half an hour. What would happen in a mansion where privacy wasn't a luxury, but a guarantee?
Could I even stop him if he tried again? Worse… did I want to?
Suddenly, Julien's hand slid onto my bare thigh, warm and deliberate. His thumb stroked gently, igniting a trail of heat across my skin while he continued his conversation in French, utterly unfazed.
I held my breath. No. Absolutely not.
But my body was already betraying me, tingling beneath the firm glide of his fingers. He wore a sleek Rolex, and in its polished face, I caught a glimpse of myself—lips painted, hair styled, eyes that weren't mine. This wasn't Penelope. This was Madison. Or rather, me pretending to be her. God, what had I gotten myself into?
"Hey." Julien's voice pulled me back, smooth and low. He'd ended the call.
"That was an old associate of my father's," he said, his eyes scanning me like he already knew I hadn't heard a word of it.
I nodded, pretending to care.
"We're going to Italy," he added.
My eyes widened. "Now?"
He chuckled, amused by my surprise. "Yes. And don't worry about your dress—we'll find you something better in Milan."
"What for?" I asked, trying to sound casual, not clueless.
"A fashion night," he said, slipping his phone into his coat. "He never misses ours. I won't miss his."
"B
ut your mother's birthday is tomorrow…" I said carefully.
That made him turn. His brow arched, curious. "We've got twenty-four hours. We'll be back by dawn. Relax, baby."
Then, with a gentleness that contradicted the lethal edge he usually carried, he took my hand and brushed his lips over my knuckles.
"You worry too much," he murmured. "You're too adorable for your own good."