Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Lian’s eyes fluttered open.
No kiss.
Just air.
He blinked, confused for a second, still caught in the weight of the moment — the closeness, the heat, the way Cheng had leaned in like something was about to happen.
But nothing did.
Cheng had stopped just short. On purpose.
And now he was pulling back, step by step, like it hadn’t meant anything.
Lian’s throat felt tight, like he’d swallowed something heavy.
He didn’t even understand why it hurt. He should’ve been relieved. That kiss would’ve shattered something — crossed a line he wasn’t ready to name.
But… why did it feel like a punch to the chest that it didn’t happen?
He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Cheng stood there for a beat longer, watching him with those unreadable eyes. Then, calmly, he said, “You should get some rest.”
And just like that, he turned and walked away.
No storm. No fight. No kiss.
Lian stood frozen, arms limp at his sides, the back of his head still against the cold wall. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding — shaky and small.
Something inside him twisted, tight and aching.
He hated the way he felt right now.
He hated the silence, the heat still lingering on his skin, the way he’d wanted something he didn’t even understand.
And most of all, he hated the way he was left standing here — alone — with nothing but the echo of footsteps and a kiss that never came.
Slowly, he slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, pulling his knees up and pressing his forehead against them.
This was madness.
And yet… here he was.
Still.
Waiting for something he couldn't explain.
LISBON, PORTUGAL – A SMALL APARTMENT, EARLY MORNING
Inside a dim apartment nestled above an old antique bookstore, someone was already wide awake.
Elena Duarte sat cross-legged on a cracked leather sofa, sipping slowly from a chipped ceramic mug. The taste of strong Portuguese coffee lingered bitter on her tongue, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes were locked on the flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. The volume was low, but the images said enough.
A news report: CHENG FU's SEEN LEAVING PRIVATE EVENT WITH FIANCE.
The photo flashed briefly on screen. Cheng in a black tailored suit. And beside him — Lian. Or rather, her.
He looked tired, but his posture was perfect. Graceful. Unbothered. Clutching Cheng’s arm like it was second nature.
Mei tilted her head slowly.
“You look more like me than I ever did,” she muttered to herself.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the mug. She turned her head to glance at the corkboard above her desk. It was filled with pinned printouts, maps, articles, and photographs. Most of them were of Cheng. A few of Lian. All recent.
It was all supposed to go differently.
She was supposed to fake her death, disappear, and stay low until the families dropped the blood debt. Until the politics cooled. Until she could return as herself, unmarked, clean. Her parents had told her it was the only way to protect her. They had orchestrated every detail — the fake death, the body switch, the documents. Lian had stepped in for her because they needed someone fill her place.
He was never meant to last more than a day or two in that role.
And yet...
Here they were. Already a Month later.
And Lian — her quiet, stubborn, artistic twin brother — was still playing Mei.
Still engaged to him.
To Cheng Li.
The name alone made Mei’s throat tighten.
Back in college, she had heard the rumors. That he was cruel. Dangerous. Raised by monsters and made into one. He was the kind of man girls whispered about in locker rooms and tabloids feared to speculate on. Her engagement to him was arranged before she could understand what fear meant.
And so, when her parents came up with the idea to fake her death and run, she had said yes.
Without hesitation.
But now?
Now the headlines painted a different picture.
The Cheng she saw in those images wasn’t a monster.
He looked... softer. Protective. His hand always rested at the small of Lian's waist possessively. His eyes always sought her face. There were no signs of abuse. No photos of screaming matches. No rumors of violence.
Only whispers of how Cheng was more visible, more tempered, more stable with his fiance around and how he stood up for her.
Mei closed her eyes.
She couldn’t stand it.
It wasn’t supposed to be Lian. He wasn’t supposed to have this.
This life.
This marriage.
This man.
She sat forward and clicked open her laptop. The secure chat app blinked.
MAMÁ
He’s still doing fine. .
Mei
Yeah i know! You don't have to state the obvious.
MAMÁ
I meant... he is portraying you so well. And Cheng has been surprisingly generous.
MAMÁ
Maybe we misjudged him.
Mei stared at those last five words.
They landed like stones in her stomach.
Maybe we misjudged him.
No. She shook her head.
This wasn’t about misjudgment.
It was about what was hers.
She was the one meant to stand beside him in silk gowns and guarded smiles. She was the one meant to tame the man feared by everyone else. She was the one meant to turn a cursed marriage into something powerful.
But instead...
Lian.
Her brother.
The quiet one. The awkward one. The one who hated crowds and flinched at cameras. The one who studied fine art and spent his youth hiding in her shadow.
He was living the life that had her name on it.
And it wasn’t falling apart.
It was thriving.
The rage came slow and soft. Like a flame that grew hungry.
She stood and moved to the mirror in the hallway. The short hair. The new face. The false name. All of it was supposed to protect her.
But now?
It was holding her back.
She reached for her drawer and pulled out a hidden folder. Inside were old IDs, a few passports. The real ones. The ones with her true name.
She stared at them.
Then at her reflection.
Then, she smiled.
Not a sad smile. Not a soft one.
A smile with teeth.
"Let them think I’m dead," she whispered. "But soon... I'll take back what's mine."
That marriage won't happen without me being the bride.
THE FU's ESTATE — STUDY ROOM, NIGHTFALL
The envelope sat on the polished mahogany desk.
Reginald Lididn’t touch it.
He merely stared, arms folded behind his back, standing beneath the ornate family crest carved into the stone above the fireplace. Flames flickered low behind him, casting a jagged light across his sharply lined face.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath.
Across the room, Santino Alvarez, his oldest confidant and consigliere, waited silently beside the bookcase, used to the heavy silences that preceded Reginald’s fury.
Reginald finally moved. He circled the desk with the cold grace of a predator, his gaze still fixed on the envelope. Thick parchment. Gold trim. The wax seal embossed with the Licrest — and the intertwined initials R & E.
The wedding invitation.
“It’s a joke,” Reginald said flatly. “An insult, packaged in calligraphy.”
Santino said nothing.
“Did he think I’d smile at this?” Reginald’s voice sharpened. “That I’d pat him on the back and offer my blessing? For marrying her?”
His lip curled as he finally sat, back straight, fingers steepled before him.
“She has no bloodline,” Reginald growled. “No weight. No legacy. The Wison's are not respectable — merchants, or aristocrats. Their influence has withered like spoiled fruit. No real estate empire. No international reach. And yet he chooses her?”
Santino cleared his throat. “They say she’s poised. Polished. And... devoted.”
“Devoted?” Reginald snapped. “Devoted girls don’t fake charm with wide eyes and cheap gowns. I’ve seen the likes of her before, Santino. I saw them swarm my father after the death of my mother, when he began building the first empire in Havana. Social vultures with smiles and soft hands. They’re all the same.”
He leaned back, eyes narrowing with contempt.
“She’s a climber.”
Santino’s voice lowered cautiously. “You believe she’s after the family’s money?”
“I know she is. Look at her parents — timid, middle-class nobodies. They threw her into this arrangement like a dying horse into a bet. She’s grasping at the Liname like it’s a lifeboat.”
He scoffed.
“And my son... my son, the future heir... has fallen for it.”
Santino hesitated. “Perhaps he sees something else in her. Maybe her beauty and charm.”
“Then he’s blind,” Reginald snapped. “And I won’t let him drag this family’s legacy through the mud because he’s mistaking desperation for love. If it's beauty he wants i have woman from high class family that are beauriful like angels falling from heaven not that riff rat calked a girl”
He stood again, prowling now, each step echoing against the marble floor.
“She doesn’t belong among us, Santino. She never did. Her blood is thin. Her roots are shallow. And she—she thinks she can wear the Fu's name like a dress? No.”
He stopped at the window, jaw clenched, hands trembling with controlled rage.
“I built this empire from war, steel, and ash. I married a Bartholomé — a woman born into European power. I buried my enemies and raised a kingdom of influence. And now my first heir wants to hand it over to a gold-digging little actress raised on fake manners and secondhand ambition.”
Santino remained silent, letting the storm rage through the room like a hurricane.
Then, Reginald turned, his voice lowering — not calm, but lethal.
“This wedding won’t happen.”
Santino blinked. “You’re going to stop it?”
“Oh, no,” Reginald said, smoothing his tie slowly. “We’re going to destroy it.”
He picked up the torn edge of the invitation and ripped it in half — not carefully, but brutally. Pieces fluttered to the floor like fallen feathers.
“Find her weaknesses. Her lies. Her secrets. I want the world to know she’s unworthy of our name. I want Cheng humiliated for bringing her into our circle.”
“And if there’s nothing to expose?” Santino asked carefully.
Reginald’s eyes turned to stone.
“Then we fabricate something that sticks.”
He stepped into the firelight, casting a long shadow across the room.
“Let the world see her burn.”