Someone Was Pretending to Be Me

I had thought nothing could surprise me anymore.

The Whitmores proved me wrong again.

When Julian said nothing, Richard assumed he had guessed correctly.

“I warned you not to shit where you eat. All the women out there aren’t enough for you? You had to pick someone working for Stella?”

He was furious.

“She’s still useful to this company. Push her too far, and she’ll walk out with those clients and projects that answer to her alone. Who’s going to make up for that loss?”

To Richard, my only value was my ability to work like an animal and earn the company money.

He didn’t think Julian was wrong to cheat.

He thought he was wrong to get caught.

Like father, like son.

Once again, this family found a new depth of shamelessness.

Richard gave Julian an ultimatum.

“I don’t care how you do it. By next Monday, you get that little bastard back here.”

He despised me from the bottom of his heart.

He still needed me.

“She’s followed you around like a lapdog for years. Say a few nice things. She’ll come running.”

It was true.

For nineteen years, ever since the Whitmores adopted me, I had practically lived for Julian.

The most loyal dog couldn’t have been more obedient.

Whatever he said was right. Whatever he liked, whatever he wanted, I brought it to him with both hands, no matter the price.

In the end, the price had been my life.

Pain twisted through my chest again.

I looked coldly at the weakness on his face.

This was the man I had loved for all those years.

He didn’t dare defy Richard. He could only force himself to agree.

Richard glanced at the clock on the wall.

“All right. It’s nearly time. Go see if your mother’s ready. We need to leave for Pearl’s exhibition.”

Pearl.

I jerked my head up.

That was the name I used for my paintings.

Vivian had chosen it herself.

Painting was the only thing in the Whitmore household that belonged to me.

I was afraid my adoptive parents would disapprove, so I painted secretly under the covers by flashlight and hid my sketches beneath the bed.

Then one day I opened my bedroom door and found Vivian standing inside.

My sketches were in her hands.

“You painted all these?”

She glared at me.

I was too young to understand that the anger in her eyes was mixed with intense jealousy.

Trembling, I dropped to my knees.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Vivian. I won’t paint anymore. Please don’t be angry. Please don’t send me away.”

In private, she forbade me to call her Mom.

At home, I had to call her Aunt Vivian.

She always wore Buddhist prayer beads around her wrist. On the first and fifteenth days of the lunar month, she ate vegetarian meals and recited prayers. Her expression was usually calm, almost indifferent.

But I had feared her from the moment I entered that house.

Once, when I accidentally broke a cup, she didn’t even look up. Still praying, she casually ordered me to kneel on the shards and reflect on what I had done.

Now she came toward me and reached out.

I thought she would hit me.

I stayed on my knees, too frightened to move.

Instead, for once, she helped me stand.

“You have talent. Keep painting. I’ll find you the best teacher. But you must wear a mask during your lessons.”

Later, she really did bring in a renowned artist.

When she introduced me, she said, “This is my daughter, Pearl. I hope you’ll teach her well.”

I thought she had finally accepted me.

Thought she really considered me her daughter.

When I was seventeen, my painting Moonlight won gold in an international art competition.

I became famous overnight.

After that, the name Pearl spread through the art world. People were fascinated. They wanted to find me, but there wasn’t a single clue to my identity.

Apart from Vivian, nobody knew I was Pearl.

But I was dead now.

How could I be holding an exhibition?

There was only one explanation.

Someone had taken my place.