Chapter 1: Cake, Cameras, and Secrets

I signed up for a parenting reality show. The catch? I barely know the kid.

The studio lights hadn’t even started to heat up, and already I was in over my head. Seriously, what was I doing here? On his birthday, he got up at the crack of dawn to bake his own cake. The kitchen was silent except for the soft clink of bowls and the low hum of the fridge. I stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching him—feeling like a total outsider in my own place—if you could even call it that. For a second, I wondered if I should say something, but I just stayed put.

“Drop the act, kid,” I said, letting my voice fall into that lazy drawl I always put on for the cameras. He didn’t even blink, just kept cracking eggs, face blank. I had to admit, the way he could flip the switch and turn into Mr. Perfect was almost impressive.

But then he let the good-boy mask slip. “Go ahead, hit me.” His eyes locked on mine—stubborn, almost daring me. For a second, I almost laughed at the nerve—six years old and already looking to throw down with me. But I just shrugged, playing my part.

I ate the whole cake myself, didn’t leave him a single bite. Not my job to spoil him—I’m not his mom. He hates me. Because I took everything from his mom—her son, her career, even her husband. I’m her twin sister.

When I woke up, the whole internet was tearing me to shreds. My phone buzzed nonstop.

The comments came in so fast I could barely keep up: “Samantha Grant isn’t fit to be a mother! Die! Let me raise him!” “Such a cute kid, stuck with a mom like that. What a shame!” “If only you needed a license to be a mom.” “If she’s like this on TV, what’s she like in private? Is she abusing that kid?” “Was she a surrogate? She doesn’t act like a real mom.” One after another—some so nasty I had to pause and roll my eyes before scrolling.

What’s Daniel up to now? I was still rubbing sleep from my eyes. Then I heard his soft footsteps, padding down the stairs. He moved with that careful, tiptoe energy kids get when they’re used to dodging grown-ups. I’d just made it downstairs when Daniel hurried over to me, all shy, calling me “Mom.”

Keep pretending. Go on. I could see the effort in his eyes, the way he was trying so hard to hold it together—for the show, for the world, for me. I just greeted him, lazy as ever. “Morning.”

He scampered off to the kitchen on those short little legs, then tiptoed back. “Mom, the cake is for you.” For a second, I almost said something nice, but I bit my tongue.

His eyes were watery and bright. Yeah, he really wanted me to say something nice. There was a tremor in his voice, and for a second, I almost caved. But I squashed it down, fast.

I raised an eyebrow. “Where’d you get a cake?” I kept my tone breezy, almost teasing. Like I didn’t already know, but inside, I was watching him close.

He blinked, hid his hands behind his back. Then puffed out his chest. “I made it.” The pride in his voice made my chest ache for a second—just a second, then I pushed it away.

“What made you want to bake a cake?” I tried to sound casual, but the question just hung there, heavy as a storm cloud. I could feel the tension settle between us.

He seemed a little sad, eyes downcast, and then—bam—a big teardrop rolled down his cheek. “It’s my birthday today, Mom.”

So that’s what this is about. I felt a pang of guilt—sharp, quick. But I let it pass. I ignored his little sad act. “Go get me a knife and fork.”

He turned and hustled off, and that’s when I noticed a bandage on his finger. He’d really tried. Damn.

I glanced at the cake on the table—it actually looked pretty good. Chocolate chiffon, strawberries, cute little cookies on top. The kind of thing you’d see in a bakery window, not something made by a kid before sunrise. Not bad, kid. Not bad at all.

Who doesn’t like a clever, well-behaved kid? Me, that’s who. I’d told him I was allergic to chocolate.

He brought the utensils, and I cut the cake nice and neat, eating every last bite. Didn’t leave him any. For a second, I thought, wow, I’m really doing this. I could feel the camera lens on me, the silent judgment of the world, but I didn’t care. Once the cameras were off me, I gloated, “Fooled you, silly kid. Chocolate’s my favorite.”

Old wolf beats young pup. You’re only six—think you can outplay me? I almost wanted to ruffle his hair, maybe even laugh, but I held back.

Daniel almost broke character, his face falling bit by bit, his cheeks getting all tight and stormy with jealousy, but he forced a smile. “As long as you like it, Mom.” His voice was so small, it barely reached me.

I flashed a big, syrupy smile at the camera. “I really like it.” I made sure my voice was extra sweet, all for the audience. Not even gonna worry about the barrage of insults in the live chat right now.

Granted, my—well, my current identity’s—reputation has never been great. Diva attitude, low EQ, clapping back at fans. But I’m the country’s first-ever Oscar-winning Best Actress. That’s enough to live off for a lifetime. My name still opened doors, even if it meant people shut theirs to me.

But there’s one thing that could ruin me—surrogacy. Not me. My twin sister, Samantha Grant.

She went off the rails over some spoiled rich kid, roped him into having a kid with her, and he never even showed up for the kid. I just gave her a little “advice,” and she ran off chasing love. I inherited everything of hers.

Not hard, since we look exactly the same—even God would get confused. Only Daniel, this little brat, figured it out. He even told his so-called dad I wasn’t his mom. Kid’s sharp.

Luke Grant glanced at me, patted Daniel’s head, and said, “Don’t cause trouble. This is your mom.” The way he said it, so matter-of-fact, like he couldn’t care less who I really was. He looked crushed. I smiled.

Clearly, my brother-in-law and my sister barely know each other. Living under the same roof, all they ever say is good morning, good afternoon, good night. Works for me—less drama.

After finishing the cake, Daniel jumped up to wash the dishes. I happily put on a face mask. That’s the nice thing about being on a show—I can boss him around, and he has to keep up the sweet act. Sometimes I almost felt like a villain in a soap opera, and honestly? I didn’t mind.

Before heading out, I went to change clothes—no cameras in the bedroom. He was frowning, fiddling with his collar, and muttered, “Don’t push it, lady.” I caught his look and nearly laughed.

“Pfft.” Sorry, I don’t usually laugh out loud, but the sight of his tiny scowl was too much. Couldn’t help myself.

He scowled even harder. His cheeks puffed out, and he looked like he wanted to stomp his foot. “You like your crazy mom that much?” I asked, touching up my makeup in the mirror. Honestly, I was curious how someone like Samantha Grant managed to raise a kid at all.

“Not really. But at least she’s my mom, not you! Who knows where you came from.” The honesty stung. I felt it, but I couldn’t help but appreciate his fire.

I burst out laughing. No clue why this kid cracks me up. “What’re you laughing at! I’m warning you, if you keep treating me like this, I’ll tell everyone you’re not her!”

I sobered up. “You wouldn’t dare.” My voice dropped, cold as ice. For a second, I watched him—he glared back, not backing down.

He jumped on the bed, glaring at me through the mirror. “Wouldn’t I? They’re all cursing you right now, aren’t they?”

“Getting flamed is one thing. Telling them I’m not your mom is another.” I met his eyes in the mirror, holding his gaze. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell your dad you’re not really his kid?”

“You!” He sputtered, fists balled at his sides. I almost laughed at how worked up he got.

“Aren’t you scared that if I say that, you’ll end up a kid with no mom? Everything you have comes from this family. Aren’t you afraid you’ll end up fighting for scraps in foster care?” I let the words hang, just to see if they’d land.

I sprayed perfume on my neck—Samantha’s favorite scent. The familiar vanilla notes hung in the air, like a ghost of her presence. For a second, I wondered if she could smell it too.

My tone softened, sounding almost motherly. “You’re terrified. You want the money and you want me gone. You’re greedy. You’re not mad for your mom’s sake—you’re just scared I’ll kick you out.” I let each word drop, slow and even.

“So what right do you have to judge me?” I said as I opened the door, camera pointed straight at us. Daniel’s chubby face was a mess of emotions. He wanted to explode but had to hold it in. I’d hit a nerve he didn’t even know he had. I almost felt bad for him. Almost.

He thinks I’m awful, but he has no idea adults can be even worse. I waved him over. “Come on.”

He clenched his jaw, forced a sweet smile, and followed me. Hope the little faker doesn’t explode from holding it in.