His Counterfeit Bride

never imagined. It wasn't just a signature; it was the final, agonizing shredding of my old life, traded for a glimmer of hope f

liced through the ringing in my ears. He didn't look at me, his gaze fixed on the cont

a whisper. "The specifics of... public cond

s and, more importantly, with the Thorne family. They are very traditional. They value... stability. Propriety. You will be polite, charming, and above all, discreet. You will represent Vale Luxuries and myself without fault." His gaze narrowed, scrutinizing my simple waitress uniform, as if alr

for doubt. He wasn't just buying my presence; he was buying my silence, my image, my very

a desperate, futile attempt to cling to

need for your current employment. My staff will manage the transition. You will be provided with a suitab

missed, dismantled without my consent. But T

er now, a quiet strength born of shee

the act feeling less like a choice and more like a surrender. As I pushed the signed document back, h

button on an intercom. "Sharon. Please prepare the car for Miss Carr

ciently severe bun and an equally efficient smile, introduced as Sharon – his senior executive assistant – spoke into a headset. I felt a wave of di

sional as she put down the headset. "A team will be dispatched to pack your belongings and bring them

've... already

al, or perhaps just polite dismissal, in her tone. "Your current lease has been terminated, and your final pay

chance to say goodbye to my few friends, or my shift manager, Marco. Ronan Vale didn't just offer a

ious suit, Mr. Davies, appeared in the doorway. He nod

Davies sat silently beside me, a watchful, unblinking presence. When we arrived, my tiny, cluttered apartment, which had always felt like a sanctuary, now seemed even smaller, almost fragile. The m

boxes. I felt a strange, detached sadness as my life was systematically boxed up, stripped away piece by piece. I saw Tabitha's old, worn armchair, the one she

with you immediately, Miss Carringto

trait I'd done of Tabitha, smiling, before the illness had truly taken hold. It was

ing rooms. A profound sense of loss mingled with an undeniable flicker of hope. This sac

dens. It felt less like a home and more like a private museum, echoing with a grandeur that bordered on intimidating. Inside, the opulence was breathtaking. Soaring ceilings, el

the grand foyer. "I am Mrs. Peterson, the house manager. We've been expecting you." Her voice was soft, but carri

with leather-bound books that looked more like decorations than reading material. My "suite" was larger than my entire apartment. A massive bedroom with a four-poster bed, a sitting area, a private balcony overlooking Ce

st, with Ms. Gwen, Mr. Vale's personal stylist, at nine A.M. Then, at eleven, a meeting with Mr. Harrison, his PR manager. And in the aftern

ending to be Ronan's fiancée; it was about erasing Sophie Carrington and molding me into someone else entirely.

n in the dining room, or in your suite, as you prefer. Mr. Vale will likely be out until late, attending a board meeting rel

ge window, gazing out at the glittering tapestry of the city. Down there, somewhere, was Tabitha. Up here, I was trapped in a gilded cage.

ded like it belonged in a Parisian salon, surveyed me with a clinical eye. "Right," she declared, circling me slowly, "we have work

lk, cashmere, and tweed were laid out, each more exquisite and expensive than the last. Ms. Gwen dismissed my practical jeans and comfortable tops w

e with a binder, thick with information about Ronan Vale, Vale Luxuries, and the Thorne family. "You need to know his history," Harrison explained, tapping the cover of the binder. "

n in the binder, the tenacious underdog, was almost unrecognizable from the arrogant, dismissive billionaire I'd encountered. I studied the Thorne family

Perhaps you met at a charity event Ronan sponsored, a patron of the arts. Something tasteful. Something believable. No mention of wai

cut glass. She taught me how to hold a champagne flute correctly, how to make small talk with dignitaries, how to

f the lips that reached the eyes, but didn't quite show teeth. "It conveys warmth wi

lay. Every aspect of me was being meticulously curated, tailored to fit Ronan Vale's needs. I wasn't Sophie anymore; I w

suite echoing around me. I picked at a perfectly cooked salmon, my mind replaying the day's lessons. The Vale smile. The origin story.

y a quiet maid. "Mr. Vale wishes to see you in the

ickly changed into a simple, elegant dark dress that Ms. Gwen had left in my wardrobe – a

d. He hadn't changed from his business suit, the same one he'd worn the previous night, looking as crisp and

mprovement." He took a sip of his drink. "Mr. Harrison and Mrs. Albrig

terial. "I'm trying, Mr. Vale," I replied, my voic

arance will be in three days. The Thorne & Co. annual charity gala. It's a cruc

ays. That fast. "I understand the importance," I

smile, every word you utter, will be scrutinized. Their perception of you is their perception of me. And their perception of me dictates the success of

are of the stakes, Mr. Vale," I replied, my voice

a split second, I thought I saw a flicker of understanding, perhaps even a hint of respect for my fierce loyalty

s over. The implicit message hung in the air:

f into a life of luxury I didn't want, all to save the woman I loved. The contract was signed, the transformat