The morning sun filtered through gauzy curtains, spilling amber light across the polished floorboards. It crept like golden fingers over pale beige walls, warming the chill silence that clung to the room. Beneath a cream-colored duvet, Jing stirred. Her body shifted slowly, limbs stretching in a languid arc as a soft yawn escaped her lips. Her legs slipped over the edge of the bed, bare feet brushing the cool wood with a delicate wince. She paused.
Then rose.
Each movement was deliberate, fluid, yet laced with a ghost of hesitation—as if something unseen clutched at her shoulders. Her chestnut-brown hair cascaded over her back in soft waves, catching light in a way that made it glimmer like copper under water. One loose strand fell across her cheek; she tucked it behind her ear, revealing striking blue eyes—wide, alert, and sleepless. Her skin was luminous but tight around the jaw, tension coiling beneath every inch.
She crossed the room in a slow drift, her silk nightgown brushing her knees as she stepped toward the mirror. Her gaze met her reflection—poised, composed, but beneath it, something frayed. Her hand hovered at her collarbone, fingertips pressed gently to the place where fear first began to throb.
This was a morning like any other. Yet something had shifted. Something cold.
Her sister Ling was meant to marry a man—Yinguang Lei. A name that carried weight. Whispers. Power. A presence like velvet over steel. Jing had only seen him twice, yet each time, she'd felt a pressure on her chest. A silence that stretched too long. A smile that never reached the eyes.
Descending the stairs, her silk robe trailing behind her, Jing moved with near-soundless steps. Her hand brushed the banister, pale knuckles tightening on the carved wood as she heard voices—sharp, frantic. Her parents moved from room to room, their motions erratic: pulling open drawers, slamming cabinets, tossing aside silk scarves and perfume bottles. Not calling. Not asking for help.
Just searching.
"Mum," she said, voice soft but firm, her fingers tightening on the stair rail, "we need to call someone. Anyone."
"Don't call anyone," Mrs. Xinyi Jian replied flatly. She sat stiffly on a velvet couch, fingers digging into the seams. Her voice was too calm. Her eyes were not.
"She's a grown woman," she continued. "She'll be back. Don't worry."
But worry was already breathing down Jing's neck. Hours passed. The air grew heavy. The silence, unbearable. The wedding was tomorrow. Ling hadn't returned.
Jing stood by the window, phone clutched tightly in her palm. Again, she dialed. Again, voicemail.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Where are you, Ling? Don't tell me you ran. Or... something worse."
She turned away from the window, moving toward the door on quiet feet, her heart thudding against her ribs like a warning drum. "They're just sitting," she muttered. "Doing nothing. Like she doesn't matter. Like she never existed."
She slipped toward the exit. Slowly, carefully. Her hand grazed the doorknob.
"Stop."
Her mother's voice crashed through the silence.
Jing froze.
She turned slowly, pulse roaring in her ears. "Mum, I have to find her."
"You'll ruin everything," Mrs. Jian snapped, rising swiftly, robe swirling around her legs. "She'll come back. You don't need to find her. You need to do as you're told."
"What are you talking about?" Jing backed a step. "What if she's hurt?"
A voice cut through the air like a blade.
"You'll replace her."
Mr. Jian stood at the end of the hall, one hand in his pocket, lips curled in a cool smirk.
"No," Jing breathed. "I won't. I can't."
He moved closer. Slowly. Precisely. "You made a mistake, Jing. Mrs. Wang Yulan. Remember her?"
Her breath hitched.
"If the police find out, do you really think they'll believe you were innocent?"
"You're threatening me?" Her voice cracked, blue eyes wide with disbelief.
But they were already moving. She tried to back away, but Mrs. Jian was there—grabbing her wrist, pulling her down the hallway with unrelenting force. Jing's bare heels scraped along the floor, the silk robe tangling around her legs as she struggled.
"Let me go!" she screamed.
No one listened.
Mrs. Jian shoved open a door, thrust her inside. Jing stumbled, her shoulder hitting the bedpost. She collapsed onto the mattress with a breathless cry.
She blinked rapidly, disoriented.
Her mother crossed the room, went to the wardrobe—Ling's wardrobe—and opened it. Inside, among designer shoes and embroidered gowns, lay a single object: a black leather diary.
Mrs. Jian picked it up.
"This is hers. Learn everything. Tomorrow, you become Ling."
The diary thumped onto the bedside table.
The door closed. The lock turned.
Jing sat frozen, breath shallow, the red silk sheets beneath her rustling with each tremor in her limbs. Her reflection stared back from the mirror across the room—familiar and foreign.
A face that wasn't hers anymore.
As the day went by,
Servants came in. One brushed her hair in silence, the bristles pulling gently through long brown waves. Another applied foundation and blush, their touch careful but impersonal. Her gown was brought out: white silk embroidered in gold, the weight of it foreign on her frame. Too heavy. Too much.
Each layer buried her a little deeper beneath the illusion.
By evening, she sat still beneath the red floral sheet, knees drawn up, diary untouched beside her.
Her lips moved slowly.
"How do I become someone I'm not? How do I survive a man like Yinguang Lei?"
A scream shattered the stillness.
"WHERE IS SHE?"
The voice echoed through the house.
And no one answered.