Chapter 1: The Face That Was Mine

“What can you do? She’s got a big shot backing her,” my agent muttered, her knuckles turning white as she clutched the steering wheel. She flicked her eyes up to the rearview mirror, frustration tightening her jaw. I caught my own reflection for a split second, my stomach knotting before she spoke again. “Isn’t that investor actually her brother?”

Outside the car window, a massive luxury brand billboard towered over the intersection, its glossy face catching every city light. Autumn Caldwell’s face stared down, flawless and distant, as if nothing in the world could touch her. I tried to look away, but my chest tightened anyway. That face used to be mine. The rain streaked across her smile, and for a second, it looked like she was crying—or maybe it was just the city trying to wash her away. I snorted quietly. Some things don’t wash off so easy.

“He’s not her real brother,” I said, voice flat. But the words sat heavy, like only I knew how true they really were.

My agent shot me a look, skeptical, brow wrinkling. “How do you know?”

I swallowed, forcing my gaze back to the window. I knew better than anyone. Because I was the real Autumn Caldwell—if only I hadn’t blown the mission. The truth tasted bitter, like something I had to choke down every single day.

The Caldwells took me in when I was a kid. Me and my so‑called brother, Harrison, were never really close. I tiptoed around him, afraid he’d decide he didn’t like me. He kept his guard up, worried people would get the wrong idea. He wouldn’t let me touch his stuff or get too close—said since we weren’t blood, there needed to be space. But he never let anyone else mess with my things, either. He’d stand outside in the rain at night, umbrella clenched in his fist, waiting for me to come home if he saw someone slip a note into my locker at school. His gaze was cold, jaw set, hand gripping the umbrella so hard his knuckles showed. “You’re late, little sis.”

Harrison never wore his feelings on his sleeve. He was the kind of guy who’d drive you to school but never let you pick the radio station. He’d show up at your soccer games and stand in the back, arms crossed, pretending not to care. But when it mattered, he was always there. I remember him at the edge of the field, scowling like he wished he was anywhere else. I used to wonder if he ever cheered for me when nobody was looking.

“A friend asked me out for coffee.”

“What friend?”

“Just... a girl from class.”

He stepped in, and I instinctively took a step back, almost catching my arm on a nail sticking out of the doorframe. He moved fast, shielding me, but got scratched himself—blood welling up. He just stared at it, like it didn’t matter.

That split second of panic—like when you break a glass at someone else’s house. “Harrison...” I reached for him, but he pulled away, ignoring the blood. “You lied to your brother for him.”

“I didn’t.”

He reached over my shoulder, digging for the note in my backpack. He was too close. Too forceful. But he never really touched me. He snatched the note and stepped back immediately.

“I’m not against you dating early,” he said, smoothing the note flat with his thumb, voice like ice. “But anyone who thinks a cup of coffee is enough to win you over isn’t worth your time.”

After that, no one ever gave me a love note again. We kept things strictly polite and safe—never talked at school, never made eye contact at home.

It was the kind of silence that settles over a house when everyone’s awake but pretending to sleep. I learned to move quietly, shoes lined up by the door, reading the mood in a single glance. Harrison kept his world locked up tight, and I circled the edges, hoping for a way in.