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Across the ballroom, a woman laughs. Dark hair, olive skin, my height. For one impossible second, I think I'm looking in a mirror before she turns.

It's Shannon O'Brien. The woman who became me.

She smiles politely at a senator, then touches another guest's arm. She chats with two businessmen who likely think she's Valentina Esposito.

But my father. My brother…

”Torin?”

”Yes.”

”I found her.”

”Who?”

”The imposter.”

Her eyes lock on mine across forty feet of polished marble. Recognition flashes between us, and her smile disappears.

Oh god, she saw me. She knows who I am. I whip off the comm. If she catches wind… if anyone does…

She turns and walks away. She knows I'll follow her, and god help me, I do. She slips through a corridor, and the music fades behind me. The hallway grows quiet, and it's empty too.

This is a trap. I should turn around. I should call Torin. I should…

I slip in behind a group being moved through a side door, keeping Shannon in my sightline.

"This way," one of the assistants says, herding the women like cattle down a stairwell. Some give me a suspicious glance, likely wondering why I’m not chained like the others. I slip through, quick and silent, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

I hear the click of heels before I see her head down a stairwell. I follow behind her, and she disappears through an office door.

The door clicks with an air of finality. On the back of the door, I see a picture, and my belly goes cold. It's a photograph of… me. Not Shannon. Me. And beside it, drivers' licenses, passports, birth certificates, half a dozen identities—women's faces and lives stolen.

None of this was random. They weren’t just taking women off the streets. They'd been replacing daughters, wives, and heirs.

Oh my god, who else was taken?

What other women were brought here before the auction? Every missing woman, every fake identity. This wasn't trafficking. This was an infiltration.

”Well,” she says softly, “I was wondering how long it would take before we finally met.” She studies me for a moment. “Sorry,” she says, almost kindly. “I really did enjoy being you. You were my favorite.”

”Why are you doing this?” My voice shakes. “I never did anything to you.”

She tips her head to the side. “Didn't you? You were the one engaged to the McCarthys. You were the one set to inherit millions. All because of the trust fund your mother had set up for you, weren't you?”

I swallow hard. That's news to me. I didn't even know that.

”Your father knew about it. He signed documents.” She lets that sit. “You can decide for yourself what he knew when he signed them.”

I’m shaking. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“You think I stole your life.”

“No. You're pretending to be me.”

“You had every privilege in the world,” she says. “That isn't why.”

“Then why?”