He takes slow, deliberate strides toward me. “Please, dear, don’t strain your body. It’s not good for you or the baby.”

My baby… I place my hand on my stomach, suddenly feeling like a terrible mother. I had been so overwhelmed by my pain and heartbreak that I forgot to check if my child was okay or even still alive.

“Don’t worry, your baby is safe,” he reassures me, and relief washes over me. He walks over to one of the large, drums in the corner of the room and retrieves a bowl set on top of the cover. Carefully, he fetches some water and hands it to me. “Drink up, dear.”

Without protest, I take the bowl from him, my hands trembling slightly from weakness.

“Easy,” he says soothingly as I gulp down the water, feeling the cool liquid soothe my parched throat.

“Let me go get you something to eat,” he says with a reassuring smile. I rest my back against the headboard, trying to relax, but my mind keeps drifting back to painful memories I desperately want to forget. Of the day I met Nate.

******

FLASHBACK BEGINS

I walked down the stairs because Richard, the butler, had just informed me that Dad was waiting in the office and needed to talk to me. Richard had been with my family even before I was born; he was more than just an employee—he was like family. His loyalty to my father was unwavering, so he was one of the few who knew about my current troubles and some of the more private issues within the Sinclair family.

As I approached the office, I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. I took a deep breath and opened the door. “A…Afternoon, Dad,” I said, a bit too forcefully, causing the door to bang louder than I intended. I heard him scoff and looked at him, raising my eyebrows in silent question.

“Gosh, your whole attitude irritates me. You’re a lady, so act like one. Don’t you see how Claire carries herself?” Claire, Claire, Claire… Again with the “Claire” talk. Ever since I returned, it seemed like that’s all he ever mentioned. I was constantly compared to Claire, even for the smallest things. It didn’t help that my real name was Claire, and they chose to give it to her.

The naive part of me had been willing to accept her birth name, Daphne, thinking it wouldn’t matter much. I had always admired her as a sister. I thought I had found a twin, someone I could confide in.

But I was sorely mistaken. There was always something hostile in her eyes, a condescending look that made me feel as if I was beneath her. She often referred to me as “too local” or “too weird.”

Initially, I tried to ignore it, believing she was just being honest and straightforward. I told myself that this might have been her personality. But nothing could have prepared me for when she began using my nightmares and panic attacks against me.

She would “joke” insensitively, saying she didn’t want to be around me because I had “demons” she didn’t want to catch. She called me names like sick, psycho, mad, crazy, possessed, coward, used rag, and many others that I’d rather forget.

As for my parents, they had to soundproof the door to my room because of my night screams and nightmares. Instead of comforting me, holding me through the night, and addressing my mental health issues, they decided it was best to block me off, letting my screams and sorrows be muffled by the walls. I felt trapped in a personal hell to the point where I considered running away and never coming back.

But I was too scared… too emotionally dependent, clinging desperately to the notion that I had a family—something I had yearned for my entire life.

“Are you even listening to me? Gosh,” my father snapped, irritation lacing his voice.

“H…huh?” I mumbled, having zoned out completely at the mention of Claire. He shook his head in frustration and looked at me as though I was a disappointment.

“Let me get straight to the point. Since Claire is occupied with a modeling gig and can’t be in two places at once, you’ll need to fill in for her. We’re invited to a high-end art exhibition, and I expect you to be on your best behavior. Not your low-class, lack-of-etiquette ways.”

Before I could utter a response, he headed for the door but turned back abruptly. “Oh, I’ve arranged for a stylist to dress you like Claire. A copper wig and an elegant dress are laid out on your bed.” With that, he walked away, leaving me no chance to voice my concerns.

What was I supposed to do? Where should I even begin? My thoughts raced with anxiety. To make matters worse, the exhibition brought back unpleasant memories. Art galleries were often used as covers for illegal activities in my past, and while not all exhibitions were like that, the memories made me anxious and fearful.

My hands began to shake uncontrollably. I wanted to impress my father, but at what cost to my peace of mind?

I walked back to my room, a heavy burden on my shoulders. The only thought that kept repeating in my mind was… "I hope I don’t mess it up."