Serena’s POV
How the hell did I end up on this stage?
The crowd’s energy is infectious in the worst possible way—champagne-fueled enthusiasm mixed with that particular brand of London society bloodlust that cos out when they sense drama. I can feel hands literally pushing forward, voices shouting encouragent that sounds more like demands.
Great. Just what I needed tonight.
I grip the microphone like a lifeline, my palms already slick with sweat. The spotlight is blinding, but sohow my eyes find him imdiately. Ryan. He’s standing near the back, that unsettling intensity radiating from him like heat waves. His stare has been burning into all evening—relentless, uncomfortable, like he’s trying to figure out so puzzle I don’t even know I’m part of.
Why does he keep looking at like that? It’s making my skin crawl.
My pulse hamrs against my throat, but I force myself to speak. Standard hostess nonsense—thanking everyone for their support, expressing gratitude for the incredible turnout, blah blah blah. The crowd eats it up, clapping and cheering like I’ve just delivered the Gettysburg Address.
Then the real torture begins.
"Co on, get Mr. Lancaster up there too!"
"When’s the wedding banquet? Don’t keep us in suspense!"
"We want our invitations!"
"Seriously, you two are like sothing out of a fairy tale!"
A fairy tale. If only they knew how complicated this actually is.
The noise level doubles as everyone starts shouting suggestions and demands. Cedric materializes beside with that effortless confidence I’ve always envied, his arm sliding around my waist like we’ve rehearsed this mont a thousand tis.
"Thank you all so much," his voice carries perfectly over the crowd, smooth as aged whiskey. "Serena and I have actually been discussing this, and once we get through this insane month, we’re definitely planning a proper celebration here in London. You’ll all be the first to know."
We’ve been discussing what now?
My smile feels like it might crack my face in half. When exactly did we have this conversation? His fingers press against my side—a warning, a request, a gentle threat all rolled into one. Play along. Don’t ruin the magic.
Fine. Whatever gets off this stage faster.
But sothing in the crowd shifts, and my eyes find Ryan again. This ti, he’s not staring. He’s moving—pushing through the throng of people with determined strides, heading straight for the exit.
He’s leaving.
The realization hits with unexpected force. I watch his broad shoulders disappear through the hotel doors, and sothing inside my chest tightens uncomfortably.
Why do I care? He’s been nothing but trouble since he showed up.
But there’s sothing about the way he left—abrupt, almost... hurt?—that bothers more than I want to admit. My throat burns, and I realize with horror that I’m feeling emotional. On stage. In front of half of London. While pretending to be blissfully happy with my husband.
Get it together, Serena. You don’t even know this man.
Cedric must feel the change in my body language because he smoothly guides us off the stage, his hand steady at my elbow. The concern in his eyes looks genuine, which sohow makes everything more confusing.
"Serena, what’s wrong?"
"Nothing. Too much champagne probably." My voice sounds strange, distant. I want to find a bathroom and lock myself in until this night is over, until I can figure out why a complete stranger’s departure is affecting this much.
"Are you sure? You look—"
"I’m fine." I’m not fine. I’m confused and tired and this whole night has been too much.
I can’t leave—not yet, not when everyone’s watching, waiting to see if the fairy tale couple will crack under pressure.
"Five minutes," I whisper back. "Just give five minutes to pull myself together."
Fake it till you make it. That’s gotten this far.
I manage to hold it together through the rest of the speeches, the toasts, the endless parade of networking conversations. By the ti the last guests start filtering toward the exits, my face hurts from smiling and my feet are screaming in these designer heels.
Finally. Almost over.
But as we’re heading toward the door, a familiar figure detaches herself from the shadows near the entrance. Sophie, looking like she stepped out of a magazine spread, all perfectly tousled hair and calculated vulnerability.
"Mrs. Lancaster." Her voice is honey over razor blades.
What now?
Every instinct I have is screaming danger, but I can’t pinpoint why.
"Mrs. Anderson. Not heading ho yet?"
"Oh, I’m in no rush." She steps closer, invading my personal space with predatory grace. "I was hoping we could chat about the fashion week lineup. Professional curiosity, you understand."
Professional curiosity, my ass.
"Sure. What would you like to know?"
Her smile sharpens. "Well, for starters, do you really think a little boutique operation like yours can handle an event this scale?" She pauses, letting the insult sink in. "And you and Mr. Lancaster—such a gorgeous couple. I have to admit, I’m a bit envious."
There it is. The real Sophie, finally showing her claws.
My own smile turns arctic. "That’s very sweet of you to worry, but we’re managing just fine. It’s getting late though—you should probably head ho."
I turn to leave, but her voice stops cold.
"Aren’t you even a little curious about what happened to the real Serena?" Her tone is sing-song, almost playful. "What’s it like, walking around wearing soone else’s face?"
What the hell did she just say?
The words hit like ice water. My knees actually wobble, and for a terrifying mont I think I might pass out right here on the hotel steps.
The real Serena? What is she talking about?
I force myself to turn back, keeping my expression carefully blank despite the way my heart is racing. "I’m sorry, what?"
"Oh, nothing." Sophie’s smile is all innocence now, but her eyes are calculating. "Just wondering out loud. You do look so much like soone I used to know."
Soone she used to know? Is she suggesting I’m... what? An imposter?
Cedric appears beside , tension radiating from every line of his body. "Serena, let’s go. Mrs. Anderson, whatever ga you’re playing, it ends here."
I straighten my shoulders, channeling every ounce of steel I possess even as my mind reels. "Mrs. Anderson, I don’t know what you think you’re implying, but I know exactly who I am. Good night."
I slide into the car before she can respond, my hands shaking as I fumble with the seatbelt.
What did she an, ’the real Serena’? Am I not... real? That’s insane. I have mories, a life, a business...
Cedric gets in beside , but not before delivering one final warning to Sophie: "Stay away from my wife. I an it. Keep pushing, and you’ll regret it."
I hear Sophie’s laugh through the window, light and mocking, as we pull away from the hotel.
Rain starts to patter against the windshield, matching the storm building in my head. Cedric keeps glancing at with worried eyes, reminding to rest, not to overdo it, all the things a concerned husband should say.
But I’m barely listening. Sophie’s words are playing on repeat in my mind, mixing with mories of Ryan’s intense stare, the way he looked at like he recognized sothing I don’t even know exists.
What’s it like, walking around wearing soone else’s face?
The city lights blur past us, distorted by rain and my growing anxiety. Sothing doesn’t add up—Ryan’s behavior, Sophie’s cryptic comnts, the way people have been looking at all evening like I’m a ghost they’ve seen before.
But that’s impossible. I know who I am. I have a life, mories, a daughter...
Don’t I?
Thunder rumbles in the distance, and I close my eyes, trying to shut out the growing unease that sothing fundantal about my life might not be what it seems.
I’m being paranoid. Sophie was just trying to get under my skin, and it worked.
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