I Stole Her Identity: Her Billionaire Fiancé Chose Me

Angela

"Mr. Anthony Jones is coming at ten a.m. I want this house sparkling before he gets here."

Verena says it from the doorway while I am on my knees beside the coffee table, trying to remove a stain Mirelle swears appeared by itself.

Of course it did. Drinks in this house apparently develop legs, climb onto furniture, and spill themselves.

I sit back on my heels and look up at her. "Good morning to you too."

Her mouth tightens. "The sitting room, dining room, and guest bathroom. And make sure the silver is polished."

I glance at the clock. "Anything else? Should I repaint the gate before nine too?"

"Angela."

There is enough warning in my name to make me reach for the cloth again.

Since Dad died, my position in this house has changed so much I almost missed the promotion. One day I was his daughter. Then I was helping Verena because she was grieving, or so I thought. Then helping became expectation, expectations gradually became my responsibility, and somewhere along the way I became the unpaid housekeeping department.

Lyra comes down the stairs in a pale blue dress, staring at her phone. "Angela, can you steam the cream blouse in my room? I might wear it later."

"I'm cleaning."

"You have time."

Apparently she has access to a secret twenty-six-hour day I am not aware of.

Before I can answer, Mirelle appears behind her. "And I need my black heels cleaned."

I look from one sister to the other, both younger than me and both so accustomed to handing me their problems that neither seems to hear how ridiculous they sound.

"Would either of you like me to breathe for you too, or are we saving that for tomorrow?"

Mirelle rolls her eyes and walks away. Lyra gives me the look she usually reserves for people who have disappointed her personally by existing.

Verena ignores them and points toward the dining room. "You missed dust on the cabinet."

"I cleaned it already," I say.

"Then do it again."

I check the cabinet and find the dust she means. Traitorous dust. I wipe it away.

I am halfway through wiping the dining table when Verena tells me to go upstairs and wash my hair.

I stop with the cloth still in my hand. "My hair?"

"And change before Mr. Jones arrives. Mirelle will give you something suitable."

Now I look at her properly. Cleaning the house for one of her important visitors is normal. Apparently being included in the decoration is new.

"Why do I need to look suitable for your business meeting?"

Verena adjusts one of the flowers in the arrangement on the table, then immediately moves it back to where it was. "It isn't a business meeting."

"Then what kind of meeting is it?"

"Must you question everything I tell you?"

"Only the things that don't make sense to me."

Her eyes lift to mine. "Go upstairs and get dressed, Angela."

A few minutes later, Mirelle appears with a beige dress draped over one arm.

I take it from her and stare at it. "What is the occasion?"

"Just wear it," she says, already turning away.

Something about today is beginning to bother me. Verena has spent the entire morning worrying about the food, the furniture, the flowers, and now, apparently, me.

Whatever she wants from Anthony Jones must be important. I know his name from Verena's calls about the company. Money has been tight for months, and every conversation about Dad's old business now seems to involve delays, creditors, or Verena lowering her voice when I enter the room.

If Mr Jones can fix whatever mess she has made, I suppose wearing this ugly beige dress for an hour will not kill me.

By the time I shower, wrestle my hair into something Verena cannot complain about, and come downstairs in Mirelle's beige dress, it is almost ten. Verena takes one look at me, tells me to straighten the neckline, then sends me to check the coffee as though I am both guest and staff.

Mr. Jones arrives shortly after ten in a black car polished so perfectly I can see the front of the house reflected in the door.

He is not ancient, but he is definitely old enough to be my father. His hair is silver at the temples, and the expensive watch on his wrist enters the room before the rest of him does.

I am bringing in coffee when his eyes settle on me.

They stay there.

I stop beside the table.

"Well," Mr. Jones says, stepping around Verena toward me with his hand extended. "She's even prettier than the photographs. You didn't do her justice, Verena."

Photographs?

My brain hits a sudden wall. "Excuse me?" I ask, looking from his outstretched hand to Verena. "What photographs?"

Mr. Jones chuckles, a low, wet sound that makes my stomach turn over. "Modest, too. I like that. Verena told me you were a bit spirited, Angela, but a good home and a comfortable life work wonders for settling a young woman down." He turns slightly toward Verena. "I'm pleased. The terms we discussed will work out fine."

The room goes very quiet. Behind me, I can hear Lyra shifting on the sofa, suddenly attentive.

"What terms?" I ask, my voice dropping the polite surface edge entirely. I look straight at Verena, whose smile has grown dangerously brittle. "Verena, what is he talking about?"

"Anthony is prepared to put money into the company and deal with the creditors your father left behind." Verena's expression barely changes. "In return, he wants a wife. You need security, and I need this company kept alive. I saw no reason not to arrange an introduction."

The words take a moment to assemble themselves into meaning. She has actually promised me to this man.

I look at the silver-haired man standing three feet from me, smelling of heavy cologne and cigars, and then back at my stepmother. The sheer absurdity of it hits me first-so ridiculous that for two seconds a laugh slips out before I can stop it. Not because anything is funny. My brain refuses to accept that this is a serious conversation.

"You've got to be kidding me," I say, the words slipping out plain and flat. "I'm not marrying this old man."

Mr. Jones's smile falters slightly, his bushy eyebrows drawing together. "Now, see here-"

"Angela," Verena's voice cuts in.

"I'm twenty-three years old!" My voice rises, the shock finally giving way to a hot, sharp flare of anger. "You don't get to negotiate a marriage for me with your business associates! What is this, the nineteenth century?"

Verena rises slowly. "You will watch your tone, young lady."

"My tone is the least important thing happening in this room."

Mr. Jones puts down his cup. "Young women often resist these kinds of arrangements, but they later come to appreciate them."

I stare at him. "I promise you, I'm going to appreciate this one the same amount in thirty years."

"Enough." Verena moves past Mr. Jones, her steps deliberate, until she stands directly in front of me.

"Let's be very clear about some things here," Verena says. "Ever since your father died, you have lived under my roof and eaten my food without contributing anything substantial. I kept you here out of respect for Gideon, but my generosity has limits."

"Your house?" My throat feels tight, hot blood rushing to my face. "This is my father's house! He built this place. My childhood is in these walls!"

"Not anymore, Angela. Your father left this property to me, and you have been living here on my charity. And charity has ended. Mr. Jones is offering you a secure future-one you certainly cannot afford on your own. You will accept his offer, or you will find somewhere else to sleep tonight."

The ultimatum hangs in the air between us, heavy and suffocating. Behind her, Mr. Jones steps closer, his posture relaxing into a patronizing smile.

"Now, now, Verena, don't be too hard on her," he says smoothly, reaching out toward me. "It's a lot to process. Young women get overwhelmed. Once she sees the house in Westchester, she'll realize how lucky she is."

His large, heavy hand reaches forward, his fingers brushing against the side of my face, slipping down toward my jawline. "You'll have a comfortable life," he says. "You may not understand that now, but you will."

The contact makes my skin crawl.

Before my mind even registers the command, my body moves. I snap my arm up, shoving his chest back with all the weight of my shoulders. "Don't touch me!"

Mr. Jones stumbles backward two full steps, his heel catching on the edge of the hallway rug. He catches his balance against the side table with a loud thud, rattling the crystal vase sitting on top. His face flushes a dark, ugly purple.

The impact comes before I see Verena move. My head snaps sideways, and a hot sting spreads across my cheek as I bring one hand up instinctively.

Verena stands right in front of me, her hand still raised, her chest heaving slightly. "You ungrateful little brat," Verena whispers, her voice shaking with rage. "You will apologize to Mr. Jones right now, then you will go upstairs, pack your things, and prepare to leave with him."

I look at Verena with my hand still pressed to my cheek. She doesn't look sorry. She looks furious that I embarrassed her.

She reaches out to grab my upper arm, her fingers pinching through my sweater. "Did you hear me? Move!"

Mr. Jones is talking now. Lyra says something behind me. Mirelle joins in. Verena pulls me toward him, and suddenly there are too many voices, too many hands, too many people deciding what happens to me as though I have somehow left my own body behind.

I wrench my arm out of her grip, lunging backward toward the front door. "I'm not going anywhere with him."

"Angela!" Verena snaps, stepping after me. "If you walk out that door, do not bother coming back. You are done here!"

My hand finds the cold brass handle of the front door. For one agonizing second, my eyes dart up the grand staircase. My mother's old silver locket is in the top drawer of my nightstand. My clothes are in the closet. My life, my room, every safe memory I have of my father is upstairs.

If I walk up those stairs, I might not have another chance to escape this.

I pull the front door open and run, making it halfway down the street before the tears finally start running down my cheeks.