Chapter 2: Wearing Her Sister’s Face

After thinking it through, I realized: if I wanted David to let me chase Chris, I’d have to shock him into realizing I’m not his sainted first love.

His first love—the one he put on a pedestal—is my older sister, Amanda.

I’m not close with my sister. We’re five years apart and barely saw each other. I was always wild, sneaking out at night, always getting grounded by our parents.

Of course, that was back when our parents were alive.

My sister was lively too, but steadier. She was kind to me, and whenever she caught me sneaking out, she’d cover for me.

The only time she ever went against our parents was when she insisted on marrying David Whitlock.

David used to paint little portraits of her. I look about eighty percent like her.

She always wore simple dresses, but even in plain clothes, she was gorgeous.

Me? I like bright colors and flashy embroidery—flowers on silk, fire on canvas.

In David’s paintings, my sister is always sewing or painting.

As for me, I can’t play piano, paint, play chess, do calligraphy, embroider, or cook. But I’m a pro at climbing fences, sneaking around, and partying. If there was a medal for mischief, I’d have a collection.

If you like something about me, I’ll change it—except I can’t change that, besides my looks, I’m nothing like my sister.

This face of mine—at least it’s pretty—I’ll need it to win over my beloved Chris.

My plan to shock David couldn’t wait any longer.

I dug through my closet for a plain dress—it was a struggle.

Most of my skirts are bright, with giant embroidered flowers.

The first time David saw me in something that loud, his face twisted, but he swallowed the word ‘tacky.’ Since the dresses were pricey, he let me buy them anyway, spoiling me like a dad who can’t say no.

I put on a pale sage dress, did my hair in a loose bun like my sister, and stuck in a wooden hairpin at a tilt.

David had been out late, came home smelling like whiskey, already knocked out. Perfect timing.

Even asleep, his brows were furrowed, cheeks flushed. David was striking—handsome eyes, sharp brows, straight nose, thin lips, that jawline, all set off by pale skin.

Drunk, he looked even more attractive—like a marble statue about to topple. Even though I didn’t have feelings for him, my ears still burned a little.

I shook his shoulder, his warmth seeping through the thin nightshirt.

Half-awake, he cracked his eyes open and, sure enough, called my sister’s name. “Amanda?”

My fingers brushed his neck.

He smiled, all soft, and took my hand in both of his. “Your hands are freezing.” Then he loosened his shirt and pressed my hand to his chest. “Let me warm them for you.”

My cheeks went up in flames, but I had to stick to the plan—ready to shock him if he got too carried away.

My fingers traced from his chest to his neck, then his cheek. His eyes were hazy, like a deep autumn pond full of longing. “Wife?”

“Husband.”

Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, and he stared at me like he’d just woken from a dream. “Amanda, you’re back?”

I’d prepared a whole speech—‘I’m not your sainted first love. Let me go. I deserve my own life’—but I never got the chance.

Two tears slid down David’s face.

It was the first time I’d ever seen the usually stoic Mr. Whitlock cry.

He sat up, still tipsy, and pulled me into a crushing hug, like he wanted to fuse me into his body. “Wife, you’re finally back. I… missed you so much.”

His body and voice trembled. “It’s all my fault. Please, don’t leave.”

Suddenly, he let go, one hand on my shoulder, the other gently stroking my cheek. “Let me take you to see Ben. He’s smart and sweet, just like you, but he keeps calling for his mother. I don’t know what to do.”

David’s deep love moved me—but I wasn’t my sister.

I said coldly, “Mr. Whitlock, look closely. I’m Maggie, not my sister.”

The heat and longing in his eyes vanished instantly. “Maggie?”

I nodded.

He let go, his face twitching. “Maggie, how many times have I told you? You don’t have a sister.”

I was about to launch into my speech when his face changed, his body went limp, and he collapsed into my arms.

Oh God. Blood. A mouthful of dark blood stained my pale dress.

That’s right—he always says, ‘Maggie, you don’t have a sister.’

In the Whitlock house, nothing’s more off-limits than talking about my sister.

I’ve always been lazy and carefree, spending my days drinking by the lake, never caring about family drama. So everything I know about the tangled mess between my sister and David, I learned after he took me in.

Yeah, that Mason family. My late father was Judge Mason. The Mason family used to be the county’s elite.

David’s great-grandfather was a big-shot judge back in the Eisenhower days—Judge Whitlock, head of the county court. Maple Heights used to be all peace and prosperity, but lately it’s been a mess: old families holding onto power, the poor scrapping for any chance to get ahead.

David’s father, a respected attorney, once stood up for the working class, which ticked off the county’s old guard. Even though my sister begged him not to, my father—chasing family glory—set a trap that landed Mr. Whitlock in jail.

David’s dad didn’t make it out—he died behind bars. David was sent down south, toughing it out until he joined the reform movement and, thanks to his brains, became Deputy County Clerk.

When the new mayor took over, the Mason family got purged, my parents died, and David secretly saved my sister and me.

Officially, I’m just a houseguest in the Whitlock home. My sister, as the daughter of a disgraced official—even though she’s gone—is a name no one dares say. That’s why David always says, ‘You don’t have a sister.’

If it weren’t for all the power plays between the old families and the working class, my sister and David would’ve been a regular couple in love.

They were college classmates and close friends. He was the prodigy, she was beautiful and talented—the golden pair back then.

But fate had other plans.

David spent years down south, and it left him physically weak.

But I never thought he’d be this frail. My plan to shock him literally knocked him out.

The doctor came, chaos broke out. When David finally woke, he asked, all weak, “Maggie? Was it you pretending to be Amanda?”

I felt about two inches tall. I nodded guiltily. “I was wrong.”

He looked at me, but his gaze seemed to go right through me, out to some far-off place. “Forget it. Go back to sleep.”

The next night at midnight, there was a knock at my door. I threw on a robe and crawled out of bed.

It was David.

He looked like he’d gotten up in a hurry. His hair—usually perfect—was just loosely tied back, and the moonlight made his features look even sharper.

Just the two of us, late at night—I was a little on edge. One hand on the door, the other on my hip. “What is it?”

He didn’t answer, just stared at me, eyes full of loss.

Guilt twisted in my gut.

He asked, “Are you happy with Chris?”

I thought about it and answered honestly, “He’s not romantic, but I do like him. Being with him makes me happy.”

He smiled, but the bitterness was plain as day. “You’re still the same.”

He turned away. “If you’re set on marrying him, I’ll make sure you have a generous trust fund.”

I was about to shut the door when this weird warmth hit me. “Is it because of my sister?”

“But I’m not her.”

He didn’t look back, his voice drifting. “Maggie, you don’t have a sister.”

“But you’re right—you are yourself.”

As he turned, I saw his eyes were red.