Chapter 2 Over My Dead Body

♤SEBASTIAN♤

Yasmin?!

I almost blurt it out, but I manage to keep my voice muted and my expression composed because that is what survival in this house demands. But inside, my mind has descended into complete chaos.

The presence of this hazel-eyed woman sitting calmly beside my father throws everything I thought I knew into question.

Is that you, Yasmin? My Yasmin?

Why is she here? No, that is not the right question. The question should be why she is alive at all.

Do not misunderstand me. Of course I want her alive. I have wanted nothing more than to wake up from the nightmare of losing her.

But she died three years ago. That was when I lost her. That was when the world took the only good thing I had ever known.

So how is she here, in my monster of a father’s world?

I carefully take in her face, staring deep into those bright eyes that used to shine even brighter whenever she laughed softly at my terrible jokes or looked at me like I was her entire world.

I study the curve of her jaw, the way her brown hair falls against her cheek, the small mole near her left eyebrow that I used to kiss just because I could.

The memories hit me all at once, crashing over my ribs like waves I cannot stop.

The way she reminded me so much of my mother, not just in appearance but in the gentle way she carried herself, which was one of the reasons I kept her hidden from my family in the first place.

I could not risk my father seeing her. I could not risk him taking that too.

If she were not standing in this house, which I detest stepping foot in, or sitting beside my father, I would have run to her.

I would have pulled her into my arms, buried my face in her neck, and held on until I was certain she was real, that the past three years had been some cruel nightmare.

But I cannot do any of that. Not when my vultures of a family are watching from every corner of this room, waiting for me to slip, to show one crack in my armor that they can use against me.

So I stare at her with my usual glare—the one that sends most people into a panic.

I expect her to react, to show some flicker of recognition or at least let her mask slip for one second.

But instead, she sits there beside my father, glaring right back at me, her face completely blank.

It crushes my heart—the one that shattered three years ago when I heard about the Flight 234 crash.

That flight took away my woman, my love, my Yasmin.

She was the only one who made me experience what it felt like to love and be loved after losing my mother so tragically when I was just fifteen.

My mother was the first woman I ever loved, and Yasmin was the second, and losing them both felt like the universe had decided I did not deserve to keep anything good.

But now, the look in this woman’s eyes is so detached, like I am just another stranger she has no interest in knowing.

That is not how my Yasmin looks at me. My Yasmin used to look at me like I was home.

She is not her.

I come to that conclusion in less than thirty seconds and immediately tear my gaze away before my sister and brothers catch a glimpse of something I cannot afford to show.

“Another one about to be added to your collection?” I finally speak, breaking the unsettling silence that has been hanging over the room.

Jonathan’s expression shifts instantly back to the usual one I know too well, because seeing him look so peaceful and calm was unsettling in a way I cannot describe.

The man I know does not do peaceful.

He laughs, ignoring my comment completely. “If you want to put it that way, sounds good to me.”

I roll my eyes. “Be done with whatever this is. I promised you just ten minutes.” 

Jonathan turns to my Yasmin look-alike and gently takes her hand. The moment their hands touch, I feel rage surge through my chest, hot, fast, and uncontrollable.

Even though I have already convinced myself that she is not my Yasmin, I still cannot bear the thought of my crazy father being with someone who looks exactly like her. Never.

If I had not hidden Yasmin away back when we were together, keeping her out of the media and away from my family, especially my father, I would say he is doing this to get back at me for declining to be his heir.

That would be exactly the kind of cruel, calculated move he enjoys. But he never knew about her, so this has to be some weird coincidence.

But then again, there is another possibility that makes me sick in a different way. One of the reasons Jonathan is probably with her is because of her striking resemblance to my mother.

The thought disgusts me beyond words, considering he is the reason she is dead. Why go around looking for someone who looks like the woman you killed? What kind of man does that?

Jonathan clears his throat, and the room falls silent. He makes a small speech, then he introduces her.

“This is my mistress, Yasmin.”

Yasmin?

I freeze. Every muscle in my body locks into place.

Her name is Yasmin?

How is it possible for someone to have the same face and the same name as someone who died three years ago?

That is not a coincidence. That is not a doppelgänger.

There can only be one explanation. This is my Yasmin, and she was never dead. She was never on that plane. Or she was, but she survived, and somehow she ended up here, in this house, beside the man I hate most in the world.

“I will be wedding her next month,” Jonathan continues, his voice carrying that finality that leaves no room for argument.

“I expect all of you to be there and to treat her with the respect she deserves as the next Mrs. Jonathan Cross.”

I do not hear the rest of what he says. I do not hear anything except the sound of my own blood pounding in my ears.

I don’t know if it’s hatred for my father or the realization that this might actually be my Yasmin sitting beside him, but I make my decision right there and then.

If this wedding happens, it will be over my dead, rotten body.