They didn't tell me his name.
They only said, "You've been chosen."
Two men in black suits stood at the doorway of my tiny apartment, their faces blank, their eyes cold. One of them held my photo — but not the one I recognized.
It was my face.
Only… dressed differently. Styled differently. Smiling in a way I had never smiled before.
"Why me?" my voice came out small.
The taller man finally spoke.
"Because you look like her."
"Like who?"
Silence.
Then the words that changed everything:
"His wife."
The air left my lungs.
"She's dead," he continued flatly. "And the boss wants you."
I laughed — a shaky, broken sound. "That's insane."
He didn't laugh back.
"You will marry him in seven days."
My heart slammed against my ribs. "I don't belong to anyone."
The shorter man stepped forward. His voice was calm. Too calm.
"From the moment he saw your face… you already did."
I tried to slam the door, but the taller man caught it with one hand.
The sound echoed through the narrow hallway.
My breath caught in my throat.
Fear surged through me — sharp, paralyzing, electric.
I turned and ran.
Barefoot on the cold tile floor, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst through my chest. My hands were shaking as I searched for my phone, knocking over a chair, sending it crashing to the floor.
Pauline.
I just needed Pauline.
My fingers barely wrapped around my phone when a shadow fell over me.
The taller man moved with terrifying speed.
He snatched it from my hand effortlessly.
"You don't want to keep the boss waiting," he said calmly.
Too calmly.
My body trembled violently. Every instinct in me screamed danger.
I ran.
Straight toward the back door.
But the moment I reached the hallway, I froze.
Men in black suits.
Everywhere.
Cold eyes.
Blank faces.
Still bodies.
Like statues carved from violence and obedience.
There were at least six of them.
One of them stepped forward and studied me like an object.
Then he spoke.
"She's the one."
My knees nearly gave out.
"I'm not her!" I cried. "You're making a mistake! That's not me in that picture— I don't know who she is— I don't know your boss— please—"
No one listened.
Not one of them reacted.
Hands grabbed my arms.
Rough.
Unyielding.
Unmerciful.
I fought.
I screamed.
I hit them with my fists, my elbows, my nails.
"I'm not her!" I kept shouting. "You've got the wrong person! I'm Lumira— I'm nobody— I live here— I work here— I'm not your woman— I'm not his wife—"
They dragged me out of my apartment.
Down the stairs.
Into the cold night air.
A black Rolls-Royce Cullinan waited at the curb — massive, polished, silent, predatory.
The door opened.
I tried to pull away.
I tried to bite.
I tried to scream again.
Nothing mattered.
They forced me inside.
The door slammed shut.
The world became leather, darkness, and silence.
I was still screaming when I felt it.
A sharp sting in my neck.
Like a needle.
A sudden burn.
Then numbness.
My limbs weakened instantly.
My voice faded into nothing.
The last thing I saw was the cold reflection of city lights on tinted glass.
And then—
Blackness.
When I woke up, I wasn't in my body anymore.
Not really.
The ceiling above me was unfamiliar — white, high, perfect. A chandelier of crystal glass hung above my head like frozen fire.
The air smelled clean.
Expensive.
Sterile.
My body felt heavy.
Drugged.
Slow.
I tried to move my fingers.
They responded — barely.
My throat was dry.
My mind was foggy.
Panic tried to rise, but my body couldn't follow.
I turned my head.
Silk curtains.
Marble floors.
A room larger than my entire apartment.
And then I saw her.
The portrait.
Hanging on the wall.
A woman.
My face.
But not my life.
Not my soul.
Not my eyes.
She was dressed in white.
Elegant.
Regal.
Powerful.
Her hand rested on a man's chest.
A man in black.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Dark.
Dangerous.
His face was sharp.
Cold.
Beautiful.
And empty.
His eyes were voids of mercy.
The plaque beneath the portrait read:
Mrs. Zarek Volkov
My blood turned to ice.
Zarek.
This was him.
The boss.
The husband.
The man I was being delivered to.
My replacement.
My prison.
My future executioner.
And in that moment, with my body still weak and my mind still drugged, one horrifying truth settled into my bones:
I wasn't being kidnapped.
I was being installed.
I tried to sit up.
Pain flared through my head — sharp and disorienting.
My body felt like it didn't belong to me anymore.
Heavy.
Slow.
Uncooperative.
The room was too quiet.
Too clean.
Too perfect.
This wasn't a hospital.
This wasn't a police station.
This was something else.
Something controlled.
Something owned.
I pushed myself upright, gripping the silk sheets beneath me. My heart began to race again as reality returned in fragments — the men, the door, the car, the needle, the darkness.
Panic rose like a tide.
I swung my legs off the bed.
The floor was ice-cold marble.
The shock of it sent a tremor through my body.
That was when I heard the sound.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Unhurried.
Not rushed.
Not aggressive.
Not nervous.
Confident.
Deliberate.
Powerful.
The kind of steps that don't belong to someone who fears anything.
The door opened.
And the world changed.
He walked in like the room belonged to him.
Like the building belonged to him.
Like the city belonged to him.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Dressed in black.
Not flashy.
Not loud.
Just clean lines and quiet authority.
His presence filled the space before he spoke.
Before he even looked at me.
Then his eyes lifted.
And locked on mine.
Everything inside me went still.
Not fear.
Not panic.
Something colder.
Something deeper.
Instinct.
Recognition.
Predator and prey.
This was Zarek.
I knew without being told.
He didn't need an introduction.
Power announces itself.
He studied me.
Not like a man looks at a woman.
Not like desire.
Not like interest.
Like inspection.
Like confirmation.
Like I was a product delivered to his doorstep.
"You woke up faster than expected," he said calmly.
His voice was low.
Controlled.
Emotionless.
Not cruel.
Not kind.
Just… final.
I stood.
My legs were unsteady, but I forced myself upright.
"Let me go," I said.
My voice shook.
But I didn't look away.
He tilted his head slightly.
A subtle movement.
Calculated.
Almost curious.
"That won't happen."
Simple sentence.
Absolute certainty.
"I'm not your wife," I said. "I'm not her. I don't know who she was, but I'm not her."
His gaze flicked to the portrait on the wall.
Then back to me.
"You don't have to be her," he said.
"You only have to replace her."
The words settled into my chest like poison.
"I won't," I said.
He walked closer.
Slowly.
Every step deliberate.
Every movement controlled.
No rush.
No force.
No aggression.
That was worse.
He stopped in front of me.
Close enough that I could feel his presence.
Not touch.
Not contact.
Just dominance.
His height.
His shadow.
His authority.
"You don't get to decide that," he said quietly.
"I decide what happens in this house."
In this life.
In this body.
In this future.
"I'm not yours," I said.
He looked at me for a long moment.
Truly looked.
Not my face.
Not my body.
My resistance.
My defiance.
My refusal.
Then he spoke again.
"Yes," he said calmly.
"You are."
Silence filled the room.
Heavy.
Oppressive.
Unavoidable.
"Sit," he said.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't harsh.
It wasn't violent.
It was command.
My body reacted before my mind did.
Fear made my muscles obey.
I hated myself for it.
I sat.
He didn't smile.
Didn't gloat.
Didn't enjoy it.
That scared me more than cruelty would have.
He turned slightly.
Two men in suits appeared at the door instantly.
"Prepare her," Zarek said.
"For what?" I demanded.
He looked at me again.
"Transformation."
My stomach dropped.
"You will stay here tonight," he continued.
"You will be cleaned."
"You will be examined."
"You will be dressed."
"You will be instructed."
I stood again.
"No."
He stepped forward.
One step.
Just one.
And my body froze.
"Your resistance," he said quietly,
"is irrelevant."
I felt tears burn in my eyes — not weakness, not fear — rage.
"I am not her," I said again. "I'm not your dead wife."
Something changed in his eyes.
Not anger.
Not sadness.
Not grief.
Something darker.
Something colder.
"She is dead," he said.
"But her place is not."
The words were wrong.
Wrong in a way that felt unnatural.
Inhuman.
"You were chosen," he continued,
"because you fit."
"Because you match."
"Because you replace."
"I won't become her," I whispered.
He leaned down slightly.
Just enough for his voice to reach my ear.
"You already are."
The door opened again.
Women entered.
Dressed in black.
Silent.
Professional.
Cold.
Not kind.
Not cruel.
Efficient.
Hands reached for me.
I fought again.
But my body was still weak.
Still drugged.
Still slow.
Zarek straightened.
"You will rest," he said.
"You will eat."
"You will comply."
"And if I don't?" I asked.
He paused.
Turned.
Looked at me fully.
Directly.
His eyes were calm.
Emotionless.
Godless.
Then he said:
"Then you will learn."
He walked out.
The door closed behind him.
The lock clicked.
And I understood something terrifying.
This wasn't captivity.
This wasn't kidnapping.
This wasn't ransom.
This wasn't crime.
This was ownership.
And I had just been delivered into a world where love meant control,
power meant possession,
and survival meant becoming someone else.
I wasn't Lumira here.
I was a vacancy.
A replacement.
A body for a ghost.
A face for a dead woman.
And somewhere deep inside me, beneath the fear, beneath the panic, beneath the horror—
Something colder formed.
Not surrender.
Not submission.
Resistance.
Not loud.
Not violent.
Quiet.
Patient.
Alive.
Because if he thought I would disappear…
He was wrong.