✓✓✓✓✓✓✓ CHAPTER 4 ✓✓✓✓✓✓✓✓

GRAYSON VALE

She refused!

The moment I saw her, I was haunted.

I don’t use that word lightly. But it’s the only way to describe what it felt like. Like someone had reached into my chest, crushed my lungs, and thrown me five years back in time.

She wasn’t Eden. That was impossible. Eden Larose died in a plane crash. But the woman standing by the catering table… she had Eden’s face.

Not similar.

Identical.

Same deep-set eyes. Same lips. Same way of tilting her head slightly when she thought no one was watching.

For a few minutes, I thought I was losing my mind.

Later that evening, I cornered Mason, my head of security, while everyone else was still drinking and smiling like billion-dollar deals weren’t hanging over our heads.

“I saw someone,” I said, keeping my voice low. “She looked exactly like Eden.”

Mason raised an eyebrow. “You mean someone who reminded you of her?”

“No,” I said sharply. “She looked like her. Exactly. Like a twin.”

Mason paused. Then he gave me a casual shrug. “Strangers look alike all the time. It’s a thing. There was even a study on it.”

I clenched my jaw. “This wasn’t some statistical coincidence, Mason. I looked her in the eye. I spoke to her. She even had the scar.”

That got his attention.

“The scar?” he asked, more cautious now.

“On her collarbone. Same exact spot. Same size. Same shape.”

Mason didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, slowly, “What are you thinking?”

I didn’t answer. Because what I was thinking didn’t make sense.

Instead, I sent a text that night.

To Julian Rowe.

Julian didn’t do normal jobs. He was ex-CIA, ex-black ops, or at least that’s what the rumors said. I didn’t care about his resume. I cared that when I gave him a name, he gave me the truth.

I sent the name: Janelle Cross.

Attached a blurry photo from the rooftop. And one line:

“Find out who she is. Everything.”

The next morning, Julian called me.

“She’s clean,” he said. “Mostly. Nothing criminal. Works as a private chef. Runs a struggling catering business. No family aside from a sister she barely talks to.”

“That’s not enough,” I said. “Dig deeper.”

He was quiet. Then he said, “Already did.”

That’s when things got strange.

“She was adopted at six,” he continued. “No records before that. Apparently, there was a hospital fire in Houston around the time she was admitted. Legal documents were destroyed. No photos from before the adoption.”

“That’s convenient,” I muttered.

“Sketchy, is what it is,” Julian replied. “Parents are dead. Adoption agency doesn’t exist anymore. Her sister isn’t biologically related. DNA tests, if they were ever done, aren’t on file.”

I felt something shift in my chest. A slow, cold weight pressing down.

“She doesn’t know who she is,” I said quietly.

“No,” Julian confirmed. “She only knows who she was told she is.”

I thanked him, ended the call, and stared at my office ceiling for a long time.

There was no proof.

No logic.

But my gut said Eden Larose hadn’t died.

She’d become Janelle Cross.

Or maybe she never knew she was Eden at all.

I had to be sure.

So I set up a meeting.

I didn’t tell her why.

Didn’t tell her what I knew.

I made it seem like business. I booked a quiet rooftop space in Midtown. Neutral. Private.

She showed up ten minutes late, wearing a navy dress that looked like she’d pulled it out of someone else’s closet. Her curls were pinned up messily, like she hadn’t decided whether to try or not.

But her eyes, they were beautiful and suspicious…

Two words that should never meet.

“I almost didn’t come,” she said, folding her arms as she stood across from me.

“I’m glad you did,” I replied, motioning to the empty seat.

She sat but didn’t relax. Her body was taut, like a spring… like she was waiting for something to go wrong.

“Let’s not waste time,” I said. “I have a proposal.”

“Figures,” she muttered.

“I need a fake girlfriend,” I said.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Public appearances. Social media. A few interviews. I have a merger coming up. The board is on edge. I need stability. You… you’re exactly the kind of woman they’d approve of.”

She narrowed her eyes. “So you want to buy my face.”

“It’s just an arrangement,” I said, ignoring the twist in my stomach. “You’d be paid well. You’d have full control over your schedule. No obligations beyond the public image.”

“I’m not interested,” she said immediately, standing.

“I’ll pay you five hundred thousand,” I said.

She paused.

Then she shook her head. “Not interested.”

I raised the number.

She still refused.

I leaned forward. “I know about the food scandal, Janelle. The hotel incident. How they tried to blame you for the salmonella outbreak.”

Her jaw tightened.

“I know it wasn’t your fault,” I said. “I can help clear your name. My PR team…”

“I said no.”

Her voice was hard now.

“I’m not for sale, Mr. Vale.”

“It’s not…”

“I don’t care what you think this is,” she snapped. “You don’t know me. You don’t get to use me like a pawn just because you have money and too many problems.”

I stood too, suddenly angry. Not at her, but at the part of me that had hoped she’d say yes.

“It’s not about the money,” I said. “It’s about the truth.”

That slipped out before I could stop it.

She caught it.

Her brows furrowed. “What truth?”

I swallowed hard.

But I didn’t answer.

She took a step back. Her voice was quiet now.

“You don’t just want me to fake-date you.”

I stayed silent.

She looked at me like she was trying to see through me… like she already suspected something, but didn’t want to believe it.

Then she said, “You’re looking for someone. And you think it’s me.”

I didn’t deny it.

She let out a dry laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”

Then she turned and walked away.

She didn’t look back.

And I didn’t follow.

But as she disappeared around the corner, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

A message from Julian.

I opened it.

One sentence.

“You were right.”

My heart stopped.

Another message came through.

“Meet me in person. There’s something you need to see.”