Chapter 1 – This Is Not My Story
I looked at myself one last time in the mirror.
I fastened the diamond clip into my hair, making sure not a single strand was out of place from the tight bun they had imposed on me. The dress—tight at the chest, made of satin fabric and adorned with crystals—looked like it was made for a princess. Or a martyr.
Seeing myself this way… so pale, so flawless, so unfamiliar… was like looking at a stranger.
I didn’t know whether I was heading to a wedding… or a funeral.
The emotions I was supposed to feel—nervousness, excitement, anticipation—weren’t there.
Only silence.
An uncomfortable emptiness.
The certainty that I was crossing a threshold into a life that wasn’t mine.
Today is my wedding day to a man I do not love.
A man who has barely looked at me without coldness. Who doesn’t speak my name with affection nor talks about our future with dreams. I’m marrying him because of an agreement, an obligation, a last name. As a stand-in for my sister.
But the problem didn’t start here.
It began much earlier.
With a phone call.
With an accident.
With the decision to keep being the shadow of the one who always shined.
My name is Aurora Black.
I’m twenty-five years old, though for weeks now it’s felt like I’ve lived a hundred.
In my family, success is expected. Emotions are seen as weaknesses. Mistakes are unforgivable. My father runs one of the most important chemical companies in New York, and my mother… well, my mother decorates perfection with precise gestures, as if our entire existence were a display case that can never be smudged.
My life wasn’t perfect, but at least it was mine.
I was studying Art. I taught painting to underprivileged children. I spent my days surrounded by brushes and colors, creating worlds where no one asked me to be anything else. In that chaos, my chaos, I was free. Authentic. Whole.
Until Bella… changed everything.
Bella is my sister. My twin.
She was born five minutes before me and never let me forget it. Bella was like fire. A storm in the shape of a woman. She loved illegal racing, endless parties, and dangerous men. She had a kind of energy that made everyone look at her… even when she was risking too much.
I loved her deeply.
God knows how much I loved her.
Despite our differences. Despite the comparisons. Despite how many times I felt invisible next to her.
The last time I saw her, we were walking down the hallway to the dining room, like every morning. She still had traces of makeup on her eyelids and her hair was tied up messily. She looked tired, disheveled… and still beautiful. She always was. Even at her worst.
—“Good party?” I asked half-jokingly.
—“Amazing. I won the race,” she replied, like it was nothing out of the ordinary.
—“You should stop doing that stuff. You're going to get hurt one day.”
—“And when are you going to start living?” she said with a crooked smile.
That was the last time we argued.
The last time we laughed.
The last time we breathed the same air without a hospital between us.
The call came the next day.
Dad.
His voice was broken.
Bella.
She had an accident.
I ran to the hospital without thinking. The ride was nothing but the sound of sirens, red lights ignored, and a single thought echoing in my head: No, no, no. Please let it not be serious. Please let it not be serious.
When I arrived, I found Mom in the waiting room—shattered.
Her eyes red. Her shirt stained with tears. Her hands clutched mine like everything depended on that grip.
—“She’s in a coma,” she whispered. “The car… rolled over several times. It was a reckless race. She shouldn’t have… she shouldn’t have gone.”
Coma.
That word is worse than “death.” Because it offers hope—but also traps you. Because no one knows if it’s a rest… or an ending.
I watched her lying in bed, surrounded by machines. So still, so distant.
My sister.
My other half.
The storm… turned to silence.
And then he arrived.
A tall man, dressed in black, with a cold stare. His name: Gael Moretti.
A last name I’d heard too many times in conversations I was never part of.
I didn’t know exactly who he was. But something in his presence… in his coldness… made me uneasy.
Dad spoke with him in private. Mom wouldn’t answer my questions.
And in that moment, I knew there was more behind the accident.
Days later, I confirmed it.
Dad called me to his office.
His tone was serious. Unyielding.
—“Bella was engaged,” he said. “An agreement between families. A commitment that involved investment.”
And now… with her condition… everything is at risk.
I sat there listening, feeling my world crumble.
He went on.
—“Moretti has decided to proceed…”
With the wedding.
With you.
—“What?” I whispered. “You want me to marry my sister’s fiancé? Pretending to be her?”
—“It won’t be a deception. It’ll be an adjustment. He already knows. You’ll be his wife. What matters is the last name. The agreement.”
What matters is the agreement.
Not love.
Not the truth.
Not me.
I accepted.
Not because I agreed, but because Mom begged me with her eyes. Because Bella was still in a coma and someone had to save the family.
And now I’m here.
In front of the mirror.
Dressed in white.
Ready to become the wife of a man who does not love me…
And the shadow of a woman who can no longer take her place.
This is not my story.
But it’s the one I was forced to live.