Chapter 1
Amara's room was her fortress, a chaotic sanctuary in a home that demanded perfection. Canvases leaned against the walls, explosions of color frozen in jagged, emotional brushstrokes. Her desk was cluttered with half-empty paint jars, crumpled sketches, and a collection of brushes she refused to clean. The faint smell of turpentine lingered in the air, sharp and defiant, like her refusal to conform to the pristine order that ruled the rest of the house.
Here, she wasn't Adelaide's twin or the family's "other daughter." Here, she was Amara—messy, flawed, and painfully real.
A sharp knock broke through her thoughts.
"Dinner's ready," the nanny called through the door.
Amara ignored it, her brush hovering over a swirling, dark forest on her canvas.
"They asked for you," the nanny added, louder this time, the edge in her voice clear.
With a heavy sigh, Amara dropped the brush into a jar of murky water and stood, glancing at herself in the cracked mirror propped against the wall. Streaks of black paint marked her cheek like battle scars. Her dark hair was a mess, tangled from hours of running her hands through it. The shadows under her eyes seemed permanent now, a testament to sleepless nights spent painting instead of dreaming.
"Guess it's time for my royal audience," she muttered to her reflection.
---
The dining room was as cold and unwelcoming as ever. The long table, adorned with gleaming silverware and spotless plates, sat beneath an ornate chandelier whose harsh light washed everything in sterile brightness. Her father sat at the head, his posture rigid, his gaze sharp. Across from him, her mother was the picture of distant elegance, her eyes fixed on her plate.
Adelaide sat in the center of it all, her golden hair catching the light like a halo. She laughed lightly at something their father said, her voice as polished as the silverware. Every movement, every smile, was perfectly orchestrated, as if she'd been born to command attention.
Amara slid into the seat furthest from them, hoping to disappear into the background.
Her father's gaze flicked to her, and his expression soured. "At least try to look presentable, Amara. You look like you've crawled out of a gutter."
Her mother didn't even glance at her. "Leave it, dear. She's been... painting again." The word "painting" dripped with disdain, as though it were something vulgar.
Adelaide's smile didn't falter. "What were you painting this time, Amara?"
Amara stabbed at her food, refusing to meet her sister's gaze.
"Oh, come on," Adelaide said, her tone light but edged. "You barely talk to anyone except Mom, Dad, and me. Don't you think it's time you started opening up?"
Amara's lips curved into a faint smirk. "You call this talking?" she murmured just loud enough for Adelaide to hear.
The words hung in the air like a challenge. For a moment, her father looked ready to scold her, but Adelaide let out a soft, practiced laugh.
"Always the comedian," she said, brushing it off. But the sharp glint in her eyes told Amara she hadn't missed the barb.
---
After dinner, Amara was halfway up the stairs when Adelaide caught her.
"You're coming with me tonight," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Amara blinked. "What?"
"There's a party," Adelaide continued, already turning toward the door. "You need to get out of that cave you call a room for once."
"I'm fine where I am," Amara muttered, starting to retreat up the stairs.
"No excuses," Adelaide said, her voice firm. "Be ready in fifteen minutes."
Amara groaned but followed. Resistance was futile when Adelaide had already made up her mind.
---
The party was everything Amara hated: loud, crowded, and painfully artificial.
The house was sprawling, its opulence on full display, but the atmosphere was suffocating. Laughter and chatter blended with the pounding bass of the music, creating a cacophony that buzzed in her ears. Adelaide thrived in it, her presence commanding attention wherever she went. People swarmed her, eager for even a scrap of her time, and she gave it effortlessly, basking in the glow of their admiration.
Amara, on the other hand, clung to the edges of the room, her drink clutched tightly in her hand. She felt like an alien here, invisible yet out of place, the chaos around her amplifying the loneliness that gnawed at her chest. No one approached her. No one noticed her.
Her gaze followed Adelaide as she glided through the crowd, her laughter ringing out like a bell. Watching her was like staring at the sun—dazzling and blinding. Amara sipped her drink, trying to swallow the bitterness rising in her throat.
Three drinks in, the edges of her discomfort blurred. The noise faded to a dull roar, and the colors around her seemed to bleed together. She leaned against the wall, letting herself drift.
Adelaide appeared out of nowhere, her expression tight with annoyance. "What are you doing?"
"Having fun," Amara muttered, her words slurred and unconvincing.
Adelaide's eyes narrowed. "You're embarrassing yourself. We're leaving."
---
The drive was tense, the silence heavy with unspoken words. Adelaide's hands gripped the wheel, her knuckles white.
Instead of heading home, she pulled up to an unfamiliar house.
"What are we doing here?" Amara asked, her voice thick with alcohol and exhaustion.
Adelaide didn't answer. She climbed out of the car, her movements brisk and agitated.
Curiosity got the better of Amara, and she stumbled out after her. The front door was ajar, and through it, she could see Adelaide standing in the hallway, her body tense.
There was a boy with her, his back to Amara. His posture was rigid, his gestures sharp and angry. Adelaide's hands moved as she spoke, her voice low and urgent, but the words were lost in the distance and the haze in Amara's mind.
They were arguing. That much was clear. The tension between them was palpable, a thread stretched taut and ready to snap.
Amara leaned against the doorway, watching them with a mix of curiosity and unease. She had no idea what they were saying, but whatever it was, it wasn't good.
Moments later, the boy stormed off, slamming a door behind him. Adelaide turned, her face pale and drawn.
"Get in the car," she said, her voice cold and clipped.
Amara obeyed without a word.
---
The crash came out of nowhere.
One moment, the car was speeding down the dark, empty road, the tension between them thick and suffocating. The next, there was a blinding flash of headlights, a screech of tires, and the sickening crunch of metal.
Time seemed to slow. The car spun, the world outside a blur of light and shadow. Amara's head slammed against the window, pain exploding behind her eyes. She heard Adelaide scream—a sharp, panicked sound—but it was drowned out by the chaos of the crash.
And then, silence.
---
When Amara opened her eyes, the world was too bright. The sterile whiteness of the hospital room stung her eyes, and the steady beep of machines filled the air.
Her body ached, weighed down by pain and exhaustion. She blinked, trying to make sense of her surroundings.
Her parents stood at the foot of her bed, their faces a mask of cold concern.
"Adelaide," her mother said, her voice flat and unfamiliar.
Amara's heart sank. Adelaide?
Her father stepped closer, his eyes scanning her face as though searching for something. "You'll be fine," he said. His tone was more detached than reassuring.
Panic clawed at her chest. Why are they calling me Adelaide?
She tried to speak, but her throat was dry, the words trapped in her mind.
I'm not Adelaide, she thought, her heart racing. I'm Amara.
But no one seemed to know that.
And in that moment, she felt more alone than ever before.
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