The veil brushed against her eyelashes like a cobweb, soft and sticky, reminding Mía Castellanos that each step toward the altar was a step further from her own life. She felt a tingle on the back of her neck, right where the small silicone prosthesis molded her jawline to make her identical to Lara Salazar.

It was a tiny piece-barely a few millimeters of translucent gel, held together with an adhesive that burned against the skin-but enough to narrow her face, lengthen her chin, and draw the exact shadow under her cheekbones, just like Lara. With each breath, she felt the rough edge brush against her real skin, reminding her that it was nothing more than a well-placed mask.

If she sweated too much, if she made a false move, if he kissed her too close... the lie would fall away.

She took a deep breath. The scent of the white orchids that decorated the anteroom was so strong it made her nauseous. She swallowed. She looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror: a goddess of ivory and lace, with the frozen smile of someone who can no longer turn back.

"You have to look at him like Lara would," whispered Beatriz, Lara's assistant, leaning over her shoulder. "Haughty. As if everyone here owes you something! Especially him."

Beatriz adjusted a pearl on the tiara. Her breath tasted of bitter coffee and ill-disguised haste. Behind them, two makeup artists checked every line of shadow, every false eyelash. One smudge, one drop of sweat, and the theater would fall apart.

"Remember," Beatriz insisted, holding her shoulders to keep her from trembling, "you are Lara. You went to ballet school in Paris. You broke your ankle at seventeen. You hate gardenias. You can't stand milk chocolate. What else?"

Mia blinked. Her head was spinning, not only from the weight of the blonde wig, but from fear.

"Very sweet perfumes make me nauseous," she recited, her voice barely audible.

Beatriz smiled, satisfied.

"Perfect. Two days. You just have to fool everyone for two days. Then you're gone. The transfer will be made immediately."

The check, Mia thought. The check that will pay off her brother's medical debts. The check that would buy another month of life. The price of her conscience.

The double doors of the living room opened with a solemn creak.

Violin music flowed out like a river of crystal. At the far end, a white carpet-not red, white as a freshly polished tombstone-led her directly to the man waiting for her: Héctor Rivera.

He was taller than she imagined. The perfectly tailored black suit emphasized the pent-up tension in his broad shoulders. His dark eyes-darker than in the magazine photos-scanned her from head to toe, fixed, unblinking, as if stripping away the lie layer by layer.

Mia felt her pulse in her throat. She wanted to lower her gaze, but Lara wouldn't. She lifted her chin a couple of millimeters. She forced a small, almost mocking smile, which she practiced in front of the mirror for hours.

One step. Another. Each heel hit the carpet like a gunshot. On either side, a crowd of faces: family members, politicians, businesspeople. Smiling faces, mouths murmuring congratulations, eyes shining with curiosity and envy. No one suspected that beneath that porcelain skin lurked a third-rate actress, trained not to stutter or cry.

Beatriz, hidden among the guests, made a slight gesture with her hand: Slow. Upright.

Mia took a deep breath. The silk of her dress brushed her ankles. She felt the damp touch of a drop of sweat running down her back, mingling with the adhesive tape on her prosthesis.

Héctor didn't smile. He didn't move. He waited for her to reach the flower arch, barely bowed his head, and extended his hand. Mia placed hers on his: firm, cold, like marble. For a second, her thumb brushed the skin beneath his shirt cuff; a tiny detail, but enough to feel the electric current vibrating between them.

"Lara." His voice was deep, metallic. Almost raspy. "You were late."

Mía suppressed a shiver. It wasn't a question, not a reproach. It was a challenge. A crack.

She blinked slowly, like Lara. "I had... a setback," she replied, modulating her voice with surgical precision. Neither too sweet nor too uncertain.

Héctor's lips twitched slightly. Something hardened in his gaze. She knows something's not right, Mia thought. Not yet, but soon...

The priest cleared his throat. The music faded. An expectant murmur filled the room like a tidal wave.

Camera flashes exploded. Mia felt each flash like a sting in her temple.

I, Lara Salazar, accept you...

The words tasted of blood and lies. Each memorized phrase mingled with the image of her brother on the hospital gurney. Hang in there, she ordered herself. Two days. Two days. Then, you'll disappear.

When Héctor placed the ring on her wrist, his fingers brushed the inside of her wrist. A fleeting touch, almost accidental, but Mía felt the pressure of his gaze, piercing her like a scalpel. There was warmth there, but also danger.

Applause. Toasts. Smiles. The music surged back like a gale. Mía barely heard the crowd congratulate her. Every kiss on her cheek was a pinprick keeping her awake. Every raised glass was a reminder that she was alone. Surrounded by people, but lonelier than ever.

When Héctor leaned in to kiss her in front of everyone, his lips barely touched hers. Cold. His breath tasted of mint, but the kiss was a threat disguised as a promise.

"Welcome to the family, Lara," he whispered against her ear. The way he said her name made her spine shiver beneath the silk.

Mía smiled. She held the pose. She feigned happiness.

And somewhere, beneath the veil, a warm tear made its way to disappear into the makeup. No one saw it. Not even Hector.

But sooner or later, he would see everything.