Chapter 1

PROLOGUE

After Julian broke his promise for the hundred and thirty-eighth time, I heard him tell his friends the cold, ugly truth.

I was just a stand-in. A pathetic stray who looked like Camilla, someone who couldn't survive without the Sterling family.

That was the moment I realized he had never loved me.

He had dedicated an entire wall to photos of Camilla. He had spent 4.37 million dollars buying her designer bags and high jewelry. Yet he had left me waiting, over and over, for promises he never intended to keep.

I was done waiting.

I agreed to the arranged marriage my family set up for me in New York. I decided to leave San Francisco behind and erase myself from his world for good.

When I packed my bags to leave, Julian didn't even try to stop me.

He was too busy doting on Camilla, who had just returned from abroad.

It didn't matter anymore.

Julian, this time, I won't be waiting for you.

Stella’s POV

I kept a record of the hundred and thirty-eight times Julian broke his word.

I foolishly believed we would get married someday. I thought he would finally give our relationship a real, public name.

Until that night, when I carried a cup of hot tea toward his study and caught the conversation drifting through the cracked door.

The door wasn't shut tight. Julian's voice slipped through the narrow gap, laced with effortless amusement.

"Tell her the truth? What's the rush?" he said. "Let her cry it out first. She lives under the Sterling roof. Without me, she has nothing."

His friend chuckled. "You're that sure she won't walk out?"

"Where could she possibly go? That arranged match in New York is just family gossip. She won't take it seriously."

His friend asked, "Just how much does she look like Camilla, anyway?"

Julian let out a faint laugh. "Her eyes and profile are almost identical. But their personalities couldn't be more different. Camilla would never bottle everything up like a doormat the way Stella does."

I stood outside in the hallway. The porcelain cup in my hands turned ice cold.

The sharp edge of the saucer dug into my palms. I looked down and realized my fingers were trembling uncontrollably.

A drop of tea spilled over, splashing onto the back of my hand. It felt freezing.

I didn't push the door open. I didn't turn around and run, either. I just stood there beside the crack in the door, listening to the rest.

I couldn't register whatever his friend said next.

A high-pitched ringing filled my ears.

All I could hear was that final phrase echoing in my head: Let her cry it out first.

He had known all along.

He knew I was hurting. He knew I had spent all these years waiting for a commitment.

He just wasn't in any hurry.

He had never been in a rush. I was the only one desperate for an answer.

"Stella Ward, you really are pathetic," I whispered to myself in the silence of my mind. "He treats you like a running joke, and you're still standing here waiting."

I set the cold cup of tea on the console table and turned toward the storage room across the hall.

Julian had never allowed me inside that room. Whenever I asked about it, he told me it was full of old junk. And I had believed him.

The door had a standard pin tumbler lock. I grabbed a screwdriver from a drawer in the kitchen and spent three minutes jimmying it until the latch popped open.

The moment the door swung inward, the scent of dry paper and wooden frames hit my nose.

Then I saw the wall.

The entire wall, stretching from floor to ceiling, was covered in photographs of Camilla Frost. Camilla in her high school uniform, smiling by the running track. Camilla at her college graduation, tossing her cap into the air. Camilla at the airport recently, wheeling a suitcase and looking back over her shoulder as the wind caught her hair. Every single photo was meticulously framed and arranged, like a personal shrine built for one person.

I stood before the wall, studying each picture one by one.

Her sweet sixteen birthday. The day she boarded a flight abroad. Postcards she sent every Christmas, scanned, printed, and pinned neatly to the board.

All these years, Julian claimed he was helping handle the Frost family's affairs. He claimed he was tied up with foundation business.

In reality, he had been curating this temple.

My gaze dropped to the dresser against the wall. The top drawer wasn't fully closed, revealing the edge of a white document. I pulled the drawer open to find a thick stack of bank statements, every single one tied to the same supplementary black card.

I picked up the top statement and scanned the charges.

Designer handbags, fine jewelry, luxury spas, first-class flights. Line after line, stretching all the way back to the year I first moved into the Sterling estate.

I flipped to the summary on the final page.

Total accumulated spending: $4,370,000.

Holding that piece of paper, I stood frozen in front of the wall of photos for a very long time.

I finally understood what I had been to Julian all these years.

A compliant pet living in his house. A cheap placeholder who looked like Camilla. Someone readily available whenever he wanted company.

He didn't need to give me a title. He didn't need to take any responsibility. Because he thought I had nowhere else to run.

I put the statement back into the drawer, aligning it exactly as I had found it. Then I pulled out my phone and opened the note titled Broken Promises.

I had started keeping track the year I moved in. Every single time he flaked on me, I logged an entry.

I scrolled to the very bottom and checked the total count.

One hundred and thirty-eight.

The first entry was Christmas Eve years ago. He promised to come home for dinner, but ended up driving Camilla's parents to a hot spring resort. The last entry was just last week. He promised to take me to the dentist, but Camilla called him once, and he left without a second thought.

Staring at that number, a bitter laugh slipped past my lips.

My phone vibrated. It was Aunt Clara calling.

"Stella, honey," Clara's voice came through, gentle and cautious. "About the match in New York... the family is still waiting for your answer. If you don't want this, I'll tell them to drop it. Don't feel pressured."

I looked at the wall in front of me, at Camilla smiling down from every single frame.

"I accept," I said.

Silence fell over the other end of the line.

"What did you say?"

"I said yes," I replied, my voice completely flat. "I'll do the arranged marriage. And I'm never coming back to San Francisco."

Clara choked up on the other end, stammering with relief before whispering through tears that she would handle everything.

After hanging up, I meticulously wiped away every trace of my presence. I pushed the drawer shut, set the papers straight, wiped down the doorknob, and used the sole of my shoe to buff out the scratch marks left by the screwdriver. I cleaned it with surgical care, making sure the room looked as untouched as ever.

Then I walked back to my bedroom, sat on the edge of the mattress, and waited for Julian to return.

He came home after eleven that night, carrying the chill of the outside air and the faint scent of whiskey. He stepped into the room, walked over, and draped an arm around my shoulders, just like he always did.

"Still awake?" he murmured with practiced tenderness. "Don't take that New York gossip to heart. The elders are just playing games."

I looked at him. His face was the same handsome face I had looked at for years, but now, he seemed like a total stranger.

"Okay," I said quietly. "I won't take it to heart."

Julian smiled, affectionately ruffling my hair. "That's my girl. Get some sleep. I'll have breakfast with you tomorrow."

He stood up and walked into the bathroom. I sat on the edge of the bed listening to the rush of running water, completely expressionless.

I didn't confront him. I didn't demand answers.