A Fake Valeria

Sylvia's harsh, whispering command hung thick in the air of the grand foyer. "Take her through the back door immediately. Do not let Mrs. Falk catch a single glimpse of this ugly hag!"

Marcella stood on the threshold, the heavy oak doors framing her bloated figure. She heard every single word her mother spat at the butler. Yet, her expression remained unreadable. Her mother's utter rejection washed over her without leaving a mark. She simply tilted her head, her clear, shrewd gaze locking onto the older woman.

"What do you mean I can't go through the front door?" Marcella asked. Her voice was flat, devoid of any daughterly affection.

Before the stunned butler could even move to execute Sylvia's frantic order, the sharp clack of designer high heels echoed against the polished marble floor. Greta Falk walked out of the drawing room and stepped into the grand hallway. She stopped dead in her tracks. A smug, venomous smile spread across her face as her eyes landed on the newly returned girl.

Greta gasped dramatically, clutching her pearls. She made sure her voice carried through the massive space. "Goodness! Marcella, is that you?"

Sylvia froze. Her face drained of color, her elegant composure shattering into a million pieces.

"What on earth has three years in that juvenile detention center done to you?" Greta continued. She took a deliberate step closer, looking Marcella up and down. Her eyes danced with wicked delight. "Where did all this extra weight come from? Look at you."

Marcella remained silent. She stood her ground, watching the woman perform her little play.

Greta turned to Sylvia, feigning deep sympathy while her eyes gleamed with malice. "Sylvia, darling, you ought to bring her to a dermatologist before that horrible cystic acne scars her face. You wouldn't want men to run at the sight of her, would you? It is bad enough that she is talentless and an unambitious student. But to lose a pretty face too... what a tragedy."

The words sliced through Sylvia like serrated knives. Greta was reveling in this deep embarrassment. For years, Sylvia had used Odette's sheer perfection to look down on Greta and her own daughter. Now, the scales had tipped in Greta's favor.

Greta sighed loudly, tapping her chin. "Oh, I just remembered. With the new school term coming around, Marcella's terrible grades and her less-than-savory permanent criminal record will be a massive problem. She will never get into any first-rate schools. You must be sick with worry."

Sylvia gritted her teeth, unable to muster a defense.

"I have a cousin," Greta offered, her tone dripping with condescension. "She is a vice principal at a modest, lower-tier school. She will be attending an art exhibition in three days. Maybe you could bring Marcella along, and I can introduce you. A pity favor, if you will."

Marcella saw right through the superficial malice. She did not wait for Sylvia to scramble for a response.

"No, thanks," Marcella interrupted. Her voice was icy and calm, cutting through Greta's smug routine.

Greta blinked, caught off guard by the sheer disrespect.

"The only admissions exam I will ever take," Marcella stated evenly, her gaze fixed on the older woman, "is for the best high school on the continent."

The hallway fell dead silent.

Greta stared in sheer disbelief. She felt a strange, suffocating pressure radiating from this heavy-set teenager. Sylvia looked mortified by her daughter's sudden arrogance.

Greta quickly recovered, covering her mouth to hide a mocking snort. "Well. It seems she hasn't lost her wild imagination." She scoffed, brushed past Sylvia, and walked out the front door, her heels clicking away in triumph.

The moment the heavy front door clicked shut, Sylvia's anger exploded.

She whirled around, her eyes blazing with furious disgust. She glared at the acne-covered, heavy-set teenager standing in her pristine foyer.

"The best high school?" Sylvia screamed. "Are you insane? What talent or academic achievements do you have under your belt to back up such a ridiculous claim?"

Marcella looked at her with a blank expression.

"You are nothing but an embarrassment!" Sylvia lashed out. She took a threatening step forward. "I wouldn't have to stand here and endure Greta's merciless taunts, begging for favors, if you were even half as brilliant as Odette! You humiliated me in my own home!"

Marcella's dark eyes narrowed slightly. The words *half as brilliant as Odette* echoed in her mind. This body retained the memories of the real Marcella, the endless neglect and the painful comparisons that had driven the original girl to despair.

"This is all your fault," Sylvia snapped. She pointed a manicured finger at Marcella's face. "Are you happy now? You come back looking like a monster, spouting nonsense about elite schools!"

Marcella said nothing. She simply watched the woman unravel, feeling a detached curiosity at the display of pure hatred.

Sylvia took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. She looked at Marcella with pure revulsion. "Listen to me carefully. I will hire a private painting instructor. Your lessons begin tomorrow. I demand you learn some basic elegance."

Marcella raised an eyebrow but kept her silence.

"I refuse to let you embarrass me with your thuggish, philistine tendencies when we show up at that art exhibition," Sylvia hissed spitefully. "You will learn to act like a civilized human being. Odette will go with me, but you will stay hidden until you learn how to behave."

Without waiting for a response, Sylvia spun around and stormed away in disgust. She disappeared into the living room, leaving her daughter standing alone on the doorstep.

Left in the grand hallway, Marcella hoisted her meager duffel bag onto her shoulder. She surveyed the vast, opulent Vance residence. Her eyes were like icy orbs of onyx as she stared at Sylvia's retreating figure. She finally understood the extreme favoritism her brothers had mentioned in her past life.

Marcella carried her bag up the grand, sweeping staircase to the second floor. She walked down the plush carpeted hallway, taking in the sheer luxury of the estate.

The layout of the house made the family's dynamic painfully obvious. She paused in front of the master suite. The door was slightly ajar. She could see the massive, beautifully decorated room inside. It boasted a crystal chandelier, heavy silk curtains, and custom-made antique furniture. This was Odette's domain.

Marcella continued down the long corridor until she found her assigned space. She pushed the door open.

It was a tiny, neglected room tucked away at the very end of the hall. The walls were bare and dull. The space barely fit a small, hard mattress. The only other piece of furniture was a cheap, scuffed desk holding a massive, outdated computer monitor that took up half the surface area.

Sylvia suddenly appeared in the doorway, following her up the stairs. She noticed Marcella glancing between the two rooms.

"That is Odette's room," Sylvia stated coldly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Your room is next door. Do not look upset. It is exactly what you deserve."

Marcella set her bag on the dusty floor. She turned to face her mother.

"Odette is slated to get into a first-rate university soon," Sylvia justified, her voice frigid and unforgiving. "She excels in everything. She is the perfect daughter. Therefore, she naturally gets the best room and the best treatment in this house."

Marcella tipped her head to the side. She looked up at Sylvia with an imperious gaze. "Do you truly believe a comfortable bed is a privilege only an academically gifted child deserves?"

"Yes!" Sylvia spat, dropping all pretense of maternal care. "If I had a choice, I would never have given birth to you. All you ever did was steal money and get into street fights. You ruined our family name. If Odette's stellar accomplishments had not made up for your disgusting behavior, I would have died from sheer embarrassment years ago!"

Marcella stood still. The vitriol in the air was thick enough to choke on. The real Marcella might have cried, but the soul inhabiting this body felt nothing but a cold detachment.

"You learned nothing in that juvenile detention center!" Sylvia ranted, her fingers trembling with rage. She glared at Marcella's inflamed face, sickened by her appearance. "Why did you even come back here to ruin my life again? You should have died in that center!"

The vicious words hung in the cramped, dusty room.

Marcella looked at the older woman. Her dark eyes were a quiet, terrifying void. There was no sadness, no heartbreak, no anger. Just a dead, chilling stillness.

"I am not your daughter," Marcella said softly, her voice devoid of any emotion. "She is already dead."

Sylvia froze. The deadly look in the teenager's eyes sent a sudden, violent shudder down her spine. The air in the room felt like ice. For a fleeting second, Sylvia felt like she was standing in front of a seasoned, ruthless killer, not her own flesh and blood.

Trembling with a mix of blinding rage and sudden fear, Sylvia turned on her heel and practically fled down the hallway, leaving Marcella alone.

Marcella kicked the door shut. She ignored the harsh words and the cramped environment. She walked straight over to the cheap desk and booted up the ancient, dust-covered desktop.

The heavy monitor whirred and flickered to life. In the dark reflection of the glass screen, Marcella saw her new face. The severe cystic acne marred her features, making her skin look inflamed and painful. She had been stunning in her past life. Now, she inhabited a broken, neglected shell.

She pushed the vanity aside and focused on the glowing screen. She opened a secure, encrypted browser and navigated to a hidden link. She needed to log into the Transglobal Web to contact her former allies and figure out what exactly happened after her plane exploded mid-air.

The black login prompt appeared on the screen. Marcella typed in her master password with rapid, precise keystrokes.

She hit enter.

A red box flashed on the screen, accompanied by a sharp, electronic beep. *Wrong password.*

Marcella's eyes narrowed into sharp slits. She paused, recalibrated, and typed it again, slower this time.

*Wrong password.*

She leaned back in the creaky wooden chair. That was impossible. The plane crash had occurred less than two days ago. She had logged into the Transglobal Web mere minutes before boarding that doomed flight.

Only one other person in the world knew that master password. Her adoptive younger sister, Sabrina Thorne.

Sabrina was of a similar age and possessed similar, dangerous skill sets. She was the only one trusted enough to have emergency access. Suspicion quickly solidified into a cold, hard fact in Marcella's mind. Sabrina was the one who locked her out. Sabrina orchestrated the sabotage.

Determined to investigate this betrayal, Marcella pulled out the cheap prepaid phone provided by the detention center. She dialed a highly secure number she knew by heart. The Thorne family's private landline in Valtoria.

The line rang three times.

"Hello, you have reached the Thorne estate. To whom am I speaking?"

It was Winston, the family butler. His weathered, formal voice sounded exactly the same.

"I need to speak to Darius," Marcella commanded. Her tone was freezing, carrying the exact, undeniable authority she wielded as the head of the Thorne family.

On the other end of the line, Winston felt a sudden shiver run down his spine. The icy tone made him squirm. It was so incredibly familiar, yet the voice itself belonged to a stranger.

"Who... Who are you? Identify yourself!" Winston stammered.

Before Marcella could answer, another voice echoed in the background of the call.

"Winston, who is on the line?"

Marcella stopped breathing. The air around her went dead still. The voice in the background was eerily identical to her own original voice. It was Valeria's voice.

"Ms. Thorne, the person on the line wishes to speak to Mr. Darius," Winston answered dutifully.

"Darius?" the woman in the background said. "Here, pass me the phone."

There was a rustle of movement over the receiver. Then, the woman spoke into the phone.

"Who is this?"

She spoke with the exact cadence, the exact commanding authority Marcella used to possess in her past life.

The sirens in Marcella's head went off. A massive conspiracy was unfolding right before her eyes. Someone had murdered her, locked her out of her empire, and was now actively pretending to be her.

She gripped the cheap plastic phone tight.

"Valeria was the only Ms. Thorne in that household," Marcella said gravely, her voice laced with deadly intent. "And she died in a plane crash in the early hours of yesterday morning. Who are you?"

A tense beat of silence stretched over the secure line. The air in the tiny bedroom grew suffocatingly heavy.

Then, the woman on the phone delivered a shocking reply. The words made Marcella's blood run cold.

"I am Valeria."