Chapter 1: Introducing my secret weapon

It was one year ago, with one year left to complete my dual degree, when everything changed. I was in my Paris apartment, facing my phone screen like it held all the answers I didn't want to hear.

The WhatsApp message popped up while I was packing my suitcase. Paris afternoon sunlight streamed through the blinds, cutting the floor into neat squares like sliced time.

"Isabella, I'm sorry. I've broken my promise. I don't want to wait anymore. Let's break up."

I stared at those words for so long that my phone screen went dark. I couldn't say I was surprised, but shocked would be an overstatement. I'd noticed Sebastian's changes for months—replies getting slower, calls getting shorter, even during video calls he'd be looking at something else.

I lit up the screen again, my finger hovering over the keyboard for a few seconds. Montclair daughters are taught from childhood to maintain grace even in the worst moments.

"I understand. Let's just be friends then."

Hitting send felt like gently closing a door.

"Good." His reply came fast—so fast I wondered if he'd already prepared that answer.

Later I discovered he'd deleted me from all social media. Thoroughly. Even group photos with mutual friends had been scrubbed clean.

I deleted him too. After all, a proper ex should act like they never existed, right?

The night before I returned to New York, I was in my Paris apartment on a video call with Vivienne when she delivered her warning.

"Isabella, are you insane?" Vivienne's British accent came through the screen. She was in her London office, the signature white décor of Harper's Bazaar visible behind her. "Those people obviously just want to watch the drama unfold!"

I continued organizing my skincare products while responding, "Viv, relax. It's just a small fashion circle gathering."

"Small gathering?" Her voice shot up an octave. "Sebastian's bringing that... that influencer who copies you! Marcus and the others deliberately didn't tell you—they want to see you humiliated!"

I paused. Scarlett Jones, the woman who'd climbed from an Ohio small town to the top of New York's fashion scene. Two years ago Sebastian had shown me her photo, saying she looked like me. Looking back, that was probably where it all began.

"You think I'd skip it because of them?" I smiled at the camera. "Montclair daughters never retreat from battle."

Vivienne shook her head helplessly. "I have to fly to London Fashion Week that day, otherwise I'd absolutely go with you. Promise me, if things go wrong, leave immediately."

"I promise." And I won't be going alone, I added silently.

Two years ago, I was sitting in my Paris apartment, preparing for finals with design sketches and business plans spread across my desk, when the memory that would later haunt me first appeared.

Sebastian's message popped up with a headshot photo.

"Bella, look at this newcomer—she's like your carbon copy. I thought you'd secretly flown back to surprise me."

The girl in the photo did resemble me—same platinum blonde hair, same light makeup, even the same angle of smile. But I could see the difference. Her eyes held a hunger I'd never had, like a wolf spotting meat.

"Could she be my long-lost twin sister?" I joked back.

Sebastian quickly sent more information: "Impossible. She's from a small Ohio town, parents still alive, has a stepbrother. I had her background checked."

"You investigate newcomers' backgrounds?"

"Vogue needs to know the details of everyone we work with. She's a somewhat famous fashion blogger now—500,000 Instagram followers."

I hadn't thought much of it then. In hindsight, I should have been more alert.

That November night when I returned to New York, I found myself standing in front of the Carlyle Hotel, the night breeze carrying a hint of chill. I pulled my Hermès cashmere coat tighter and took a deep breath.

"Ready?" Enzo's voice came from beside me, his Italian accent making the English sound especially warm.

I looked at him—tonight he wore a deep navy Tom Ford suit, his black curls styled immaculately but still maintaining that artistic casualness. The small Romano family tattoo on his wrist peeked out from his sleeve.

Handsomer than I expected, I assessed mentally, then realized I was actually critiquing appearances at a time like this.

"Let's go." I linked my arm through his. "Let's see how this show plays out."

When the private dining room door opened, I felt like I was stepping onto a stage where everyone already knew their lines except me.

The instant I walked in, my gaze landed directly on Sebastian in the main seat. After more than a year, he still looked perfect—impeccably tailored Giorgio Armani suit, flawless hair, those eyes I'd once loved deeply behind silver-rimmed glasses.

And the woman beside him...

Scarlett Jones in person was even more polished than in photos. She wore a red Valentino dress, makeup flawless beyond criticism. But I noticed her eyeliner technique, lipstick color, even her hair's curl pattern—all identical to styles I'd used in the past.

The feeling was strange, like seeing a Photoshopped version of myself.

"Hello everyone." My voice sounded calmer than expected. "Thanks for remembering to throw me a welcome back."

The man with the Cartier watch stood to make pleasantries, but his attention quickly shifted to Enzo behind me. The entire room suddenly fell silent, everyone staring at us.

I felt that anticipatory tension—they were waiting for a good show.

The moment we stepped into full view, I knew this was my chance to control the narrative.

"Isabella, this is...?" The man with the Cartier watch asked with obvious curiosity.

I gracefully stepped aside half a step, fully exposing Enzo to everyone's view. He was my ace for tonight, though strictly speaking, this was a card I didn't truly hold.

"Enzo Romano, my boyfriend."