Chapter 12
Two days later.
The airport morning was cold. Mrs. Hayes stood beneath the high ceiling, heels ticking the marble: tap, tap, tap—impatient.
Beside her, an elderly woman sat in a wheelchair, white hair glowing in the light. Wrinkled face, but warm and gentle as ever.
“Grandma…” Ivy’s breath hitched, then she ran.
The old woman’s hands trembled as they cupped Ivy’s face. “My Ivy… you’re thinner.” Ivy pressed her palm over Grandma’s, tears pricking. She knelt and buried her face on Grandma’s knee like a child.
Three years—since the marriage, they’d rarely seen each other. Her parents had sent Grandma to an upscale nursing home. At least she looked well. Grandma didn’t know Ivy had married; everyone told her Ivy was studying abroad.
The familiar scent broke her composure; tears soaked the wool blanket. “Don’t cry,” Grandma’s hand shook. “I’m taking you home.” Ivy nodded through tears.
Mrs. Hayes watched coolly and handed over two plane tickets. “The fifty million has been deposited,” she said. Ivy had already seen the transfer. She was going to be a free, wealthy woman.
“Everyone in this city believes I have only one daughter. From now on, don’t contact us.”
Ivy lifted her eyes to this stranger of a mother—no blood tie in the look at all. For three years, she had been nothing but a tool.
“Okay,” she said softly.
The boarding call sounded. Grandma’s twig-thin fingers gripped hers, warm as a hearth. “Let’s go home,” she said. A real home. No scheming, no lies, no stand-in, no Landon Moore.
Ivy pushed the wheelchair toward security. Her back was straight. She could already smell freedom.
At the Moore villa, the real Chloe sat before a mirror, silent while the makeup artist traced her brows and lips. Today was her wedding day with Landon Moore.
She didn’t look eager—but she didn’t object either. She studied her reflection: features as fine as three years ago, eyes colder now. A ghost of a smile lifted her mouth.
She’d read Ivy’s journal. She knew her greatest enemy was Shannon Lynn.
The dressing-room door banged open. Shannon strode in on heels, looming over the seated bride. “I knew you were faking it,” she sneered. “Now that there’s a wedding, the mask comes off.”
"You, this cunning little bitch. You are truly hypocritical."
Her lips curved into a smile, and suddenly a sarcastic grin appeared on her face.
“Scheming little hypocrite. All your tricks—and you still can’t win my Landon brother’s heart.”
The makeup artist’s hand shook; the brow pencil slipped. Chloe raised her hand to signal the makeup artist to step aside.
She stood and turned slowly; eyes sharp as arrows pinning Shannon in place. “Miss Lynn, whatever happens, the title Mrs. Moore is mine.”
“Don’t even think about it. You can’t have what’s mine.”
Shannon’s face twisted. “What are you so proud of? He loves me. You’ve got the name and nothing else.”
“And you?” Chloe’s smile turned cutting. “You don’t even have a name. Does that kill you?” She stepped in close, mockery bright in her gaze.
In the hall, Landon froze. This wasn’t his wife. The woman he knew had been gentle, humble, like water. This one was proud and sharp, a blade.
Shannon snatched a brush and hurled it at the mirror. Glass exploded. A shard skimmed the Chloe’s cheek, leaving a pale line. She touched it—no blood. She smiled, then slapped Shannon hard.
“Bitch. In such a hurry already? We’ve got a long future—I hope you enjoy it.”
Shannon reeled, stunned. Was this really the woman who never had a temper? She seemed like a different person—possessed.
Landon burst in. “Enough!” He grabbed the Chloe’s wrist—and met a stranger’s eyes: cold, mocking, looking at him like a clown.
She yanked free. “Landon Moore, keep your pet on a leash. Don’t forget what you owe me.”
The train of her gown swept the glittering shards, a crisp crackle in her wake. Landon stared, blank. Was Chloe shattered into a second personality by Rowan Flynn? But Flynn had claimed he never touched her—just revenge for his rejected proposal.
So why had she changed? Had he hurt her so deeply she’d broken inside?
