I didn't sleep that night.
Even in the safehouse, with its heavy locks, blackout curtains, quiet hum of the generator outside, my mind couldn't settle. My heart kept racing as if it were trying to outrun the truth.
I was alive.
But the world believed I wasn't.
It was a strange kind of coffin I lived in: four walls, a stolen identity, and the weight of secrets that could crush a person if she wasn't already broken.
Morning crept in as a faint gray glow under the curtain. I sat on the narrow bed, knees pulled to my chest, thinking about the funeral they were planning for me. My father's voice, yesterday, had trembled when he said, "We'll make it small. Closed casket. They cannot know."
Closed casket…
Because the body inside wasn't mine.
The thought left a metallic taste in my mouth.
A soft knock interrupted my spiraling thoughts.
"Come in," I said quietly.
Monalisa slipped inside, carrying a tray with warm tea and a tablet. Her expression was serious, almost urgent.
"You need to see this," she whispered, passing me the tablet.
My hands trembled slightly as I took it.
A headline flashed across the screen:
BREAKING: Heiress Miranda Albert Confirmed Dead After Sudden Collapse. Husband Devastated.
A picture of Edward, fake sorrow, hand pressed to his forehead.
A picture of the imposter, crying dramatically, being "comforted" by security as she held Edward's sleeve.
A picture of Dr. Daniel walking through the hospital corridor, stone-faced.
"They're putting on a show," Monalisa muttered coldly. "They want the world to believe they're the victims."
My jaw clenched.
"I expected this," I whispered. "They need sympathy."
Monalisa nodded. "It gets worse. Scroll."
I swiped down, and froze.
A formal statement from one of the biggest conglomerates in the city:
Statement from Marcel Corporation:
'We extend our deepest condolences to the Albert family. Miranda Albert was,'
My throat went dry.
My heart lurched.
Marcel Corporation?
Why were they…?
I stopped breathing when I saw the name at the bottom.
signed,
Marcel V. DeLuca, CEO.
Marcel.
Marcel DeLuca.
My father's business ally's son.
The heir to a corporate empire.
A man I had met only twice in formal gatherings but had never spoken deeply with.
Why was he issuing a public condolence message?
"He was at the hospital last night," Monalisa said quietly, answering the question burning in my chest. "He showed up about twenty minutes after they declared your death."
"What?" My voice cracked. "Why would he be there?"
My heart hammered, confused and terrified.
Monalisa gave me a long, loaded look.
"He didn't come to see Edward," she said softly. "He came asking for you."
I stared at her.
"Me?"
She nodded. "He demanded access to your file. Security refused. He caused a scene. Said he needed to confirm the truth with his own eyes."
Silence fell heavy between us.
Why?
Why would a man like him, a man with a thousand more important things to do, fight his way into the hospital for my sake?
"Your father thinks Marcel suspected something," Monalisa continued. "He thinks Marcel knows Edward is not the man he pretends to be."
That was when my heartbeat stuttered.
Because I remembered something,
Something from months ago
At a gala in a glass-walled ballroom filled with business elites.
Marcel DeLuca had passed by me, paused, and said in a voice only I heard:
"You look tired, Miss Albert. If you ever need help… the kind you can't ask your husband for… call me."
I had laughed it off politely.
I didn't know he meant it.
I didn't know he had seen my misery.
I didn't know he had kept watching.
A soft vibration buzzed on Monalisa's phone. She checked the screen, and her eyes widened.
"It's him," she whispered.
My stomach dropped. "Who?"
"Marcel DeLuca."
My heart stopped.
"What does he want?"
Monalisa's voice trembled as she read the message:
"Tell Miranda I know she's not dead.
Tell her hiding won't protect her forever.
I need to see her.
Now."
My breath vanished.
"He knows," Monalisa whispered. "Miranda… he knows you're alive."
A cold shiver ran through me.
"How?" I whispered.
But a deeper question followed fast:
Why does he care?
Why is he risking himself?
Why is he becoming part of this… this nightmare?
Monalisa swallowed. "He's outside."
My heart slammed so hard it hurt.
"Outside?" I repeated, barely able to speak.
"Yes. He followed your father here. He's in a black SUV. He hasn't gotten out yet. But he said… he won't leave unless he sees you."
The room tilted.
This was too much.
Too dangerous.
Too fast.
"Miranda," Monalisa said softly, "I know this is overwhelming. But maybe… maybe you should see him."
"Why?" I whispered.
"Because," she said gently, "he isn't afraid. And right now… you need someone who isn't afraid."
My breath shook.
Marcel DeLuca,
rich heir, powerful corporate force, controlled, brilliant, untouchable,
was sitting outside the safehouse where a dead woman hid.
For me.
Because he cared.
Enough to risk being followed.
Enough to question an official death.
Enough to fight hospital security.
Enough to defy Edward's people.
And maybe… enough to help me fight back.
My chest tightened.
"Bring him in," I whispered.
Monalisa nodded and left the room.
I stood up slowly, brushing trembling hands over my hair, wiping my face, trying to look like someone who wasn't broken.
Then the door opened.
Marcel stepped inside.
Tall. Sharp-suited. Eyes a cool storm that saw everything.
When he saw me, alive, he inhaled sharply, like he'd been punched.
"Miranda," he breathed. His voice cracked.
I opened my mouth to greet him,
But before I could speak, he crossed the room and pulled me into his arms.
It wasn't romantic.
It wasn't possessive.
It was the embrace of someone who had almost lost something they shouldn't care about but did anyway.
Deeply.
Unreasonably.
Dangerously.
I froze, breath caught in my throat.
His hand trembled slightly against my back.
"You're alive," he whispered. "Good… God… you're alive."
I exhaled shakily.
His scent, clean, expensive, warm, grounded me in a way my broken world had not allowed for days.
He pulled back to look at me, searching every inch of my face like he needed to confirm I wasn't an illusion.
"What did they do to you?" he asked. His voice was low, furious, protective.
"Everything," I whispered.
His jaw clenched. His eyes darkened.
"Then I'll help you take everything back."