Obsessed with His Runaway Fake Sister

In the citys elite circles, my brother Danny Sinclair was known for obsessively doting on me. Yet that night, he was holding another girls hand, his gaze soft as he guided her to cut the birthday cake meant for me. The girl looked exactly like meeven the burn scar on her wrist was identical.

I was about to storm the stage when lines of glowing text suddenly appeared before my eyes:

[Look at the adopted stand-in. She doesnt even realize shes fake, jealous of the real heiress.]

[Spoiler: Shell go insane trying to win his love. Hell break her legs and lock her in a psych ward. Total karma.]

My blood ran cold.

Danny spotted me, immediately shielding the girl. His face hardened as he scolded me for making a scene. He declared Sylvia was his real sister and said hed explain later.

Sylvia. Same face, same scar. I was just a crafted replica.

Hed spent millions on this lavish coming-of-age gala for me, yet earlier that day, hed locked me in a dark room upstairs. Id smashed the lock, bleeding, and raced into the hallonly to see this.

Holding back tears, I gave him a hollow smile. Since the real one was back, the understudy could bow out. I pulled out the limitless black card hed given me and waved it. Consider this my final performance fee.

Leaving Danny and the bewildered guests completely frozen in place, I turned on my heel and walked straight out of the grand banquet hall.

The mirrored walls of the lobby caught my reflection. The exquisite silk of my designer gown was torn at the seam, the hem dragged with dirt, and my meticulously styled hair had mostly fallen out of its pins.

I looked like an absolute wreck.

[Wait, what? Shes just leaving?]

[Yeah, I was totally waiting for her to throw a tantrum and get humiliated by the male lead!]

[This is weird. The villainess isn't supposed to act like this.]

If I hadn't seen those bizarre, floating comments, I probably would have stormed that stage. I would have stood in front of that towering, three-tiered cake and screamed at the top of my lungs in front of hundreds of aristocrats.

I would have yelled that I was the real Sinclair heiress and that the girl beside him was an imposter.

And then, just like the floating text predicted, Danny would have shattered my legs and locked me away in an asylum.

I quickened my pace. Pushing through the revolving glass doors, a blast of cold, post-rain wind hit my face.

I flagged down a passing taxi.

"Take me to the nearest luxury shopping district."

As the car accelerated, the blurring city lights outside the window felt like the last eighteen years of my life being rapidly rewound and erased.

I pulled out my phone and opened my email.

Sitting at the very top of my inbox was an acceptance letter from the Paris Institute of Design. It had been sitting there for exactly seven days.

A week ago, when I first received this email, I was ecstatic. I had sprinted straight into Dannys private study.

He was signing documents, not even bothering to look up.

"Danny! I got accepted into the Institute in Paris!"

The tip of his fountain pen paused. He finally raised his eyes, his gaze as tepid and clear as a glass of water.

"Paris."

"Yes! They only accept thirty students globally..."

"It's too far." He looked back down at his paperwork, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. "I don't feel safe letting you go abroad alone. I will arrange a prestigious academy for you here in the city."

I stood frozen on his Persian rug.

"But..."

"Sienna." His voice was incredibly gentle, yet coated in an irresistible, crushing authority. "Be a good girl. Listen to me."

And I did. I listened to him.

I shoved my wildest dreams into the deepest drawer of my desk, brainwashing myself into believing he had his reasons. He was only doing what was best for me.

Only now did the ugly truth sink in.

He wasn't afraid of the distance.

He was afraid I would escape.

How could the perfect replica he spent eighteen years meticulously carving be allowed to leave the stage before the authentic masterpiece was safely brought home?

I tapped the screen, hitting the "Accept Offer" button at the bottom of the email.

Eighteen years of living as a caged songbird. Deleted with a single click.

[Holy crap, she's actually leaving?!]

[Wait, isn't she afraid her ID is going to be deactivated? Her entire legal identity belongs to the female lead!]

[The villainess suddenly grew a brain. I can't predict this plot anymore.]

My fingers subconsciously brushed against the raised, jagged scar on my wrist.

I couldn't remember much of anything before the age of five, but one specific, horrifying memory constantly played on a loop in my nightmares.

Danny tightly gripping my tiny, fragile wrist. A small, custom-made iron, glowing red-hot, being pressed directly into my skin.

The sickening smell of burning flesh.

The white smoke curling into the air.

And that agonizing, soul-piercing pain. Every single time the nightmare reached that point, I would wake up screaming.

I once asked him about it. "Danny, what is this scar?"

He stayed silent for a very long time before pulling me into his chest, resting his chin heavily on the top of my head.

"It's a mark."

"It's the absolute proof that you are my little sister."

What a beautiful, twisted lie.

It wasn't a special bond. It was a brand.

Arriving at the shopping district, I quickly bought a change of clothes. A black oversized hoodie, loose jeans, and a pair of canvas sneakers.

Stripping off the blood-stained couture gown, I gripped the handle of my newly purchased forty-eight-inch luggage and headed straight for the bank.

Inside the VIP lounge, the branch manager took one look at my limitless black card and treated me with the reverence usually reserved for royalty.

"Please withdraw two hundred thousand in cash for me."

The manager blinked in shock for a fraction of a second, but his intense professional training instantly kicked in.

"Right away, Miss Sinclair. Please wait just a moment."

[Hahahaha is the villainess afraid the male lead is gonna freeze her accounts?!]

[Honestly, you have to respect the hustle. Secure the bag before he cuts her off.]

[What is two hundred grand gonna do? That card has a limit of at least a hundred million.]

[Yeah, but anything over two hundred thousand requires a three-day advance notice. She's smart.]

I sat on the plush leather sofa, watching the manager disappear behind the vault doors.

My phone screen lit up.

A text message from Danny.

"Where are you."

Three words. No question mark. It was a direct order.

I ignored it.

Thirty seconds later, a second message appeared.

"Come home. Don't make me worry."

I swiped the notification away and opened my airline app, checking for the fastest flight out of the country.

I typed in my ID number. When it came time to input my birth date, my fingers hesitated over the screen.

That birthday didn't belong to me.

March 21st was the birth date of the biological Sinclair daughter.

When was my actual birthday?

I had no idea.

Every single birthday cake I ever had was decorated with candles spelling out those numbers. I had closed my eyes and made a wish on those specific candles for eighteen years.

And every single year, my wish was the exact same. I wished to be Danny's little sister forever.

The irony was suffocating.

I pressed confirm and paid for the ticket.

The electronic boarding pass popped up. Flight to Charles de Gaulle, departing tonight at nine-thirty. Direct.

Now, I just had to make it onto that plane before my legal identity was completely wiped from the system.

An hour later, the bank manager handed me a heavily weighted duffel bag.

"Miss Sinclair, would you like me to arrange a security escort for you?"

I offered a polite, hollow smile. "No thank you. I have my own security waiting."

Dragging my suitcase out of the banks glass doors, the biting autumn wind slipped down my collar.

I hailed another cab.

"To the international airport."

Once the car merged onto the highway, I powered my phone down entirely and shoved it deep into the hidden compartment of my luggage.

[The villainess is leaving so decisively, it actually makes me a little sad.]

[Obviously she has to leave now. Once her ID gets flagged, she won't be able to step foot outside the city limits.]

I leaned against the cold leather of the backseat, watching the metal guardrails of the highway blur into a continuous gray ribbon.

The sky gradually darkened into pitch black.

In the distance, a massive commercial jet drifted down the runway, its navigation lights blinking rhythmically against the night.

Inside the terminal, the wait became agonizingly boring. Against my better judgment, I pulled my phone out and turned it back on.

The second the screen illuminated, news notifications flooded my screen like an avalanche.

#SinclairHeiressFound #StandInSisterKickedOut #HeartbreakForTheFakeSister #ColdBloodedSinclairGroup

I tapped on the top trending hashtag.

There was a high-resolution photo of me stumbling out of the hotel, wearing that torn, blood-stained dress, bending down to get into a taxi.

The caption attached to the photo was pure, inflammatory gasoline.

"The real heiress returns and instantly forces the innocent stand-in out onto the streets. Getting kicked out of the Sinclair mansion on the night of her 18th birthday, without even getting a slice of her own cake. The absolute cruelty of the wealthy."

The post had over three hundred million views.

My pupils constricted.

Who took that photo? Who wrote that incredibly specific caption?

I clicked over to the official Sinclair Group corporate account. A freshly pinned PR statement sat at the top of their feed, its phrasing sterile and clinical.

"Miss Sylvia Sinclair, who tragically went missing at the age of three, has been safely located. Due to his profound grief over the years, Mr. Danny Sinclair adopted an orphan bearing a physical resemblance to his sister. Now that the true Miss Sinclair has returned, the adopted individual has been appropriately relocated and compensated. We urge the public not to spread baseless rumors."

The comment section was a war zone of public outrage.

"Appropriately relocated? You mean thrown out onto the street in a torn dress?"

"The real heiress is ruthless. She couldn't even tolerate a girl who kept her brother company for fifteen years?"

"Danny Sinclair is a monster. He raised her like a pet and discarded her the second he didn't need her anymore."

"My heart breaks for the stand-in. Brainwashed into thinking she was family, only to be kicked to the curb."

My fingers went completely numb.

The holographic comments flared to life in front of my face, scrolling frantically.

[Here we go! The villainess is making her move!]

[Playing the ultimate victim to cyberbully the female lead. This is diabolical.]

[I actually thought she changed her ways for a second. Guess a leopard never changes its spots.]

[Shes just trying to use public pressure to force the male lead to beg her to come back. Classic manipulation.]

I stared blankly at the glowing text.

No.

I didn't do this.

I didn't have the time, the energy, or the vast network required to pull this off. A trending topic with three hundred million views doesn't just spontaneously generate in twenty minutes without a professional, highly paid PR firm orchestrating it behind the scenes.

My phone vibrated violently in my palm.

A name flashed across the screen. Danny Sinclair.

Staring at those letters, it felt like a physical hand had reached into my chest and squeezed my heart.

I was terrified to answer.

But I knew exactly what would happen if I didn't. He would unleash his private security to lock down the entire city. And then, just like the floating text predicted, my legs would be broken and I would be thrown into a padded cell.

I knew Danny better than anyone.

To the outside world, he was a refined, elegant aristocrat. But beneath the tailored suits, he was a deeply obsessive, terrifyingly controlling megalomaniac.

This PR disaster was currently roasting his entire corporate empire over an open flame.

He was absolutely furious.

The phone rang for the fourth time.

Taking a shaky breath, I pressed accept and held the phone to my ear.

"Sienna."

His voice was dead calm.

Too calm.

It was the eerie, suffocating stillness right before a hurricane makes landfall.

"Where are you."

I didn't speak.

"I asked you where you are." He repeated it, his voice dropping an octave, sounding like a violin string stretched to its absolute breaking point.

"The airport."

I didn't bother lying. It was pointless. If he wanted to find me, his tech team could trace my GPS coordinates in under five minutes.

Silence heavy with static filled the line.

Then came the strike.

"This circus online. You paid someone to orchestrate this?"

It wasn't a question. It was a guilty verdict.

Every single syllable sounded like it was being ground between his teeth.

My stomach plummeted.

Just as I thought. He was entirely convinced I was the mastermind.

"It wasn't me."

"Not you?" He let out a low, humorless scoff. "Then who else could it possibly be? Sylvia?"

My heart skipped a beat.

That actually wasn't entirely outside the realm of possibility.

"I need you to come back here. Right now." It was an absolute, unyielding command.

"I just told you I didn't do it."

"Do you honestly expect me to believe that?" he cut me off. "Sienna, I know exactly how your mind works."

"You've been playing these games since you were a child. Whenever you felt slighted, you never threw a tantrum. You just quietly manipulated things in the dark so everyone else would fight your battles for you."

A bone-deep chill washed over me.

So that was how he truly saw me.

"This situation has spiraled entirely out of control." His voice lowered again, thick with the effort of suppressing a violent outburst.

"Do you have any idea how Sylvia feels right now? My actual, biological sister?"

"She just finally made it home. She hasn't done a single thing wrong, and the entire country is currently tearing her apart, calling her a jealous, vindictive monster."

"She is only eighteen years old."

Listening to the slow, measured sound of his breathing through the speaker, a bitter laugh bubbled in my throat.

He was so deeply heartbroken because she was only eighteen.

What about me?

I was eighteen too.

When he branded my flesh with red-hot iron, I was only five.

I glanced up at the digital clock on the terminal wall. My flight was boarding in less than fifteen minutes.

"Fine. I'll come back."

[Wait, what?! Why is she caving so easily?]

[Are you kidding me? She's just going back to beg for forgiveness?]

[Hold up, she keeps checking the departure screens. Shes just stalling for time!]

There was a fraction of a second of stunned silence on his end of the line.

"Are you truly willing to issue a public clarification?"

A microscopic trace of hesitation had crept into his tone. He genuinely couldn't believe I was complying this easily.

"I didn't buy the trending tags, but I will gladly stand in front of the press and clear Sylvia's name for you."

He didn't respond immediately. He was carefully calculating whether my promise held any weight.

"Which terminal are you in? I will have my security team pick you up."

"That won't be necessary."

"Sienna Sinclair." He used my full, fake name.

It was the ultimate warning sign.

"If you dare try to run..."

He didn't finish the sentence, but the sheer, paralyzing threat bled through the receiver, sliding into my brain like a silver needle.

I knew exactly what the rest of that sentence entailed.

[The male lead is terrifying. Is he raising a sister or a prisoner?]

[Run, girl, run!]

[She can't! Hes already on his way. He's stalling for time too!]

[WARNING: System navigation indicates the male lead is less than fifteen minutes from the airport!]

Less than fifteen minutes!

I violently whipped my head toward the departure screens.

Twelve minutes until the gate closed.

I could make it.

As long as I could drag this out for twelve more minutes, I could vanish into the sky.

Suddenly, the overhead PA system chimed.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we regret to inform you..."

My heart stalled in my chest.

"...that Flight AF1502 to Paris has been canceled due to severe weather conditions at the destination. Passengers are advised to proceed to the customer service desks for rebooking. We sincerely apologize for the inconvenience."

Canceled.

[Canceled?! You have got to be kidding me!]

[Even the universe is siding with the male lead. This is way too dramatic. RIP to the villainess.]

I practically leaped out of my seat, grabbing my luggage handle and sprinting toward the premium customer service counter.

My heart was slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Rebook.

I just needed to rebook any flight. Anywhere.

As long as the plane left the tarmac before Danny arrived.

I slammed my passport and ID card onto the polished counter.

"Rebook me. Any destination in the world. Whatever flight is leaving next."

The ticketing agent jumped slightly at my intensity but maintained her pristine, professional smile. "Right away, ma'am. Please give me one moment to check the system."

Every single keystroke felt like an eternity.

"There is a flight to Seoul departing in ten minutes."

"I'll take it."

The agent swiped my ID card through the reader. She frowned.

"I apologize, ma'am. The system indicates your identification profile is currently undergoing a mandatory update. This card has been flagged as invalid."

Flagged as invalid.

Those words crashed over me like an avalanche of ice.

I stared down at the small plastic card on the counter.

For eighteen years, my entire existence in the world was anchored to that piece of plastic.

And now, the real Sienna Sinclair had returned.

My borrowed life was being systematically deleted from the database.

"Ma'am? Ma'am?" The agent looked at me with growing concern. "Your passport is also showing up as..."

[It's over. It's so over. She literally can't escape.]

[I called it. Her entire identity belongs to the female lead. How was she supposed to run?]

[The male lead is probably pulling up right now. Good luck, girl.]

I took a deep, shuddering breath and slowly pulled my passport and ID back across the counter.

"Never mind. Thank you."

The second I turned around, gripping my luggage handle, my phone illuminated in my pocket.

A text from Danny.