A few hours after their wedding, Dante led Sofía to an old room in the castle. He asked her to remain silent and lifted a sheet covering a body dressed in his clothes

Only three hours earlier, the grand chapel upstairs had been flooded with golden light, champagne toasts, and the rustle of my heavy lace veil. I was Sofía DeMarco now—or so I believed. My marriage to Dante, the enigmatic heir to the vast DeMarco shipping empire, was supposed to consolidate two historic family lineages and bring peace to a decades-long rivalry.

Instead, three hours after exchanging our vows, my new husband led me away from the lingering wedding guests, down a narrow spiral staircase that seemed to descend straight into the subterranean belly of the fortress.

"Dante, where are we going?" I asked, pulling the heavy skirt of my white wedding gown off the dusty stone steps. "Our guests are still in the ballroom."

Dante didn't turn around. He wore his crisp black wedding tuxedo, his posture rigid, his dark eyes fixed forward. "They can wait, Sofía. What sits in this room cannot."

He pulled a heavy key from his coat, inserted it into an iron-reinforced oak door, and turned it. The hinges groaned like an opening tomb.

"Remain completely silent," Dante whispered, stepping inside. "No matter what you see."

The room was dim, lit only by a single iron candelabra in the corner. In the center of the cold stone chamber stood a heavy wooden table. Resting on top of it was a human body, draped in a stark white linen sheet.

My breath hitched in my throat. The silhouette beneath the sheet wore clothes identical to Dante's wedding suit.

Dante stepped to the edge of the table, reached down, and peeled back the cloth.

I let out a sharp, terrified scream that echoed violently off the stone walls, my hand slapping over my mouth.

Lying motionless on the table was Dante.

The exact same jawline, the same pale skin, the same dark wavy hair, the same subtle crook in his nose. It was like looking at a corpse plucked straight from my wedding photos. My knees buckled, and I stumbled back against the heavy doorframe, my mind spinning into pure hysteria.

"Dante...?" I choked out, looking back and forth between the man standing beside me and the corpse on the slab. "Oh God... who are you?! What is this?!"

"Look closer, Sofía," Dante said, his voice entirely devoid of panic.

He leaned over the body, reached toward the corpse's hairline with a pair of fine silver tweezers, and carefully peeled back a paper-thin layer of medical-grade silicone. The prosthetic appliance lifted away smoothly from the dead man's face, taking the nose structure and cheekbones with it.

Beneath the flawless mask lay the face of a completely unknown, middle-aged stranger.

I sank onto a nearby wooden bench, gasping for air, clutching my lace bodice. "He... he was wearing a mask of your face? Who is he?!"

"A body double," Dante replied softly, setting the silicone mask onto a metal tray. "Hired three weeks ago to take my place in case my family's enemies attempted an assassination during our wedding ceremony. But that isn't why I brought you down here, Sofía."

Dante took my hand, his grip warm and steady, and gently pulled me toward the head of the table. He leaned down and carefully turned the corpse's head to the left, exposing the pale skin behind the ear.

"Look at the mark behind his earlobe," Dante commanded softly.

I leaned in, squinting under the flickering candle light. Located precisely behind the dead man's right ear was a distinct, crescent-shaped surgical scar.

My heart stopped beating. The room seemed to tilt on its axis.

"I know that scar," I whispered, my voice breaking into a terrified squeak. "My father... my father has that exact same scar. He got it in an auto accident when I was seven years old. I used to trace it with my thumb when he read me bedtime stories."

I looked up at Dante with wide, wild eyes. "Why does this stranger have my father's scar? Where is my father, Dante?!"

Dante looked down at me, his dark eyes filled with a heavy, profound sorrow.

"The man you called father your entire life was never your father, Sofía," Dante revealed, his voice a low, somber murmur. "He was an actor—a professional imposter hired by the family syndicate thirty years ago to replace the real Lord Vance after his sudden disappearance."

I stood frozen, completely speechless, my mind refusing to digest the terrifying truth. Everything I knew about my childhood, my heritage, my very name—was built on a stage of lies.

Before I could form a single word, a heavy iron latch clicked behind us.

A hidden stone door swung open in the wall. Standing in the dark doorway was a woman draped in a black velvet cloak. She stepped into the candlelight, pulling back her hood to reveal the sharp, aristocratic face of my mother-in-law, Lady Eleanor DeMarco.