The city’s wealthiest couple was throwing a lavish birthday bash for their daughter in the hotel’s grand ballroom—while upstairs, in a luxurious private suite, my boyfriend Donnie Gardner was whispering promises to “satisfy” me like never before. 

After I playfully tied him to the bed, he begged me to kill the lights and light a single candle. But the moment I picked up the lighter, a flood of text materialized in my vision like some twisted subtitles to my life:

[DON’T DO IT, GIRL! That lighter’s rigged to explode—say goodbye to your face!]

[Newsflash: Donnie’s only with you to clear the path for his childhood sweetheart, the Fosters’ “fake” daughter. You’re the spitting image of Mrs. Foster in her youth, and they can’t risk you being recognized.]

[Here’s the playbook: First, the explosion disfigures you. Then, a “tragic accident” finishes you off en route to the hospital. Donnie marries the impostor, they off your real parents, and voilà—the Fosters’ fortune is theirs.]

[MOVE. Get downstairs NOW. One look at you, and Mrs. Foster will know you’re her blood.]

My fingers trembled around the lighter just as Donnie’s velvet voice purred through the shadows:

“Come on, babe. Light it up. I’m wearing glow-in-the-dark boxers tonight.”

The commentary wasn’t done:

[Ah yes, the oldest trick in the book—distract her with sex while the knife’s already at her back.]

[PUT. THE LIGHTER. DOWN.]

[That face is your golden ticket—don’t throw it away!]

I set the death-trap back on the table with a quiet click.

Donnie’s patience frayed. “Rachel. Why the hesitation?”

Suddenly, everything felt off.

Two years together, and Mr. “We Should Wait” was suddenly begging for a candlelit romp? That morning, he’d claimed he was “swamped” and couldn’t see me—yet here he was, booking a suite the one night the Fosters were in the same building.

Like he’d planned to keep me away from them.

Ice shot through my veins. I faked a phone call, nodding urgently. “Got it—on my way!”

Flipping the lights on, I lied smoothly: “The Fosters’ daughter’s party is here too. They’re handing out insane tips to staff—I’d be stupid to miss it.”

Donnie’s smile flickered. “Really? You’d trade me for cash?” He arched against the silk sheets, all sculpted abs and rolling Adam’s apple.

The floating text roasted him alive:

[Oh please, you discount merman. Save the act for someone who doesn’t know you’re a lying, fake daughter hack.]

[First time? PUH-LEASE. That “innocent” routine worked on Rachel, but we know where your real loyalties lie.]

I googled the Fosters’ “reunited” daughter—but Lena’s face was conspicuously absent from every photo. The comments explained why: after being kidnapped at five, her parents kept her out of the spotlight.

My breath caught. I’d been five when I was taken too.

My adoptive parents were kind—worked their fingers to the bone to put me through college. But two years ago, a “car crash” took them both. On her deathbed, Mom whispered the truth: “You weren’t ours.”