Playing His Dead Heiress

Chapter 1

Sophie.

“Are you sure about this scar?” Dmitri asked, his eyes meeting hers in the vanity mirror. “It’s a permanent choice, once you walk out that door.”

“It’s not permanent. It’s a prosthetic, you know that.” She pressed the thin, silvery line of latex just below her hairline. A perfect imitation of the mark left by a childhood fall from a horse. A fall the real Ella Sterling never had.

“That’s not what I mean,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He adjusted his driver’s cap. “I mean the choice to be her. To them, that scar is real. That story is real. You will be real.”

Sophie met his worried gaze. “That’s the point, Dmitri. For the next three months, Sophie Larkin is dead. Ella Sterling is back.”

She picked up a diamond earring from the velvet box. “Besides, it was my father’s patent they stole. They left him with nothing. It’s only fair I return the favor.”

He sighed, a sound of resignation she knew well. “Just be careful. These are not good people.”

“Good people don’t have this much money.” She clicked the earring into place and offered a cool smile. “How do I look?”

“Like a billion dollars,” he said, his voice flat.

“Perfect. Let’s go collect.”

The limousine door opened into a blinding wall of camera flashes. Shouts erupted from the press line held back by velvet ropes.

“Is that her?”

“It looks like Ella Sterling!”

“Miss Sterling, where have you been?”

Sophie held up a hand to shield her eyes, a gesture of practiced vulnerability. She ignored the questions, her focus entirely on the grand entrance to the Sterling Foundation Gala. Two security guards in black tuxedos stepped forward, blocking her path.

“Ma’am, this is a private event,” the first one said, his voice polite but firm.

“I’m aware,” Sophie said, her tone dripping with the kind of bored authority that security guards were trained to recognize. “My grandfather is expecting me.”

“Your grandfather?” the second guard asked, skeptical.

Sophie let her gaze sweep over him, a look of mild disappointment. “Arthur Sterling. I’m Ella. I realize it’s been a while.”

They exchanged a look of pure confusion. Their earpieces crackled. They had no protocol for a ghost showing up at the front door.

“Please step aside,” she said, not as a request, but as a command. They did.

The great hall of the museum was a sea of black ties and glittering gowns. Conversations ceased. Champagne glasses froze halfway to lips. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as she walked forward, each step a carefully measured beat in the silent room.

They were staring at her, at the familiar Sterling blue eyes she’d mimicked with contacts, the sharp jawline she’d honed with diet, and the pale scar peeking from her hairline.

She saw him then, across the room. Her target. Arthur Sterling, a shrunken figure in a wheelchair, an oxygen tube clipped to his nose. He looked smaller and more frail than in the photos.

His withered hand trembled as he pointed at her. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Sophie softened her expression, letting a decade of carefully rehearsed pain surface in her eyes. She moved towards him, a daughter returning from a long and terrible war.

“Grandfather?” she whispered, her voice cracking just so.

He stared, his eyes filling with tears that tracked down the papery skin of his cheeks. “Ella?” His voice was a dry rasp. “My girl… is it really you?”

“I’m home,” she said, kneeling beside his chair and taking his cold hand in hers. “I’m so sorry I was away for so long.”

He squeezed her hand with surprising strength, a sob shaking his fragile frame. “I knew it. I knew you were alive. I never gave up hope.”

Around them, the room erupted into hushed, frantic whispers. Cousins and board members started to approach, their faces a mixture of shock, awe, and in some cases, deep suspicion.

Sophie felt a surge of pure triumph. It was working. The research, the training, the sheer audacity of it all. It was working. She had breached the fortress.

She smiled at her weeping grandfather, a gentle, reassuring smile that hid the cold predator in her heart. She scanned the crowd of gaping faces, cataloging her future victims.

Then she saw him.

He was standing near a marble column, half-cloaked in shadow. He wasn’t weeping. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t even shocked. His face was a mask of cold neutrality, his dark eyes fixed on her.

He was analyzing her. Picking her apart. His stillness was more terrifying than any outburst. It was the stillness of a wolf watching a lamb play in a field, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

An older woman with a severe haircut and a diamond choker approached her side. “Ella, darling. We thought you were… gone.”

Sophie tore her eyes away from the man in the shadows to focus on the woman. Aunt Beatrice. A viper in Chanel. “The rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated.”

Beatrice gave a tight, unfriendly smile. “The entire family is here. Everyone is so happy to see you. Even Chase seems… intrigued.”

Sophie kept her expression placid, though her pulse hammered against her ribs. “Chase?”

“Chase Sandon,” Beatrice said, gesturing with her chin toward the man in the shadows. “Grandfather’s right hand. His little pet project. He runs the company now. Surely you remember him? He used to follow you and your brother around like a stray dog.”

“Of course,” Sophie lied smoothly. “It’s been a long time. Some things are still a bit… fuzzy.”

“I can imagine,” Beatrice sniffed, clearly not believing a word.

Sophie chanced another glance at Chase Sandon. He hadn’t moved. His stare was relentless, a physical weight pressing down on her. He wasn’t intrigued. He was hunting.

And she was his prey.

Chapter 2

Sophie.

The crowd swarmed her, a suffocating wave of perfume, cologne, and insincere smiles. Arthur Sterling was wheeled away by a nurse, leaving Sophie to the wolves.

“Ella, my dear girl!” A portly man with a red face and tiny eyes grabbed her hand. Cousin Robert. Head of a failing hedge fund, according to her files.

“Robert,” she said, her voice warm. “It’s so good to see you. You look… prosperous.”

His chest puffed out. “We do our best. Sterling blood, you know. I’m so sorry about what you must have gone through.”

“The past is the past,” she said, her eyes conveying a deep, unspecific trauma he could fill in with his own imagination. “I’m focused on the future now. On family.”

He squeezed her hand. “That’s what I like to hear. We must talk about my new South American venture. A real game changer.”

“I’d love that,” Sophie lied, gently extracting her hand. She turned to a woman dabbing her eyes with a silk handkerchief.

“Aunt Margaret,” Sophie said softly.

“Oh, Ella,” the woman wailed, pulling her into a cloud of lavender scent. “We prayed every night for your return.”

“I felt those prayers,” Sophie said, a perfect note of fragile gratitude in her voice. She had read that Margaret was deeply religious and prone to histrionics. “I remembered the lullabies you used to sing to me. They gave me strength.”

Margaret’s eyes widened, tears flowing anew. “You remember that?”

“Some things,” Sophie whispered, “you never forget.”

It was a dance she knew well. A delicate performance of giving people what they wanted to hear, of reflecting their own emotions back at them. For an hour, she moved through the vipers, deflecting questions about her absence with vague statements about needing time to heal, all while scanning the room for Chase Sandon. He had melted back into the shadows, but she felt his presence like a cold spot in the warm, crowded room.

Her real mission was not this performance. It was upstairs.

Seeing her chance, she touched Margaret’s arm. “Aunt, would you forgive me? It’s all a bit overwhelming. I just need a moment to myself.”

“Of course, my dear, of course! Take all the time you need.”

Sophie slipped through a side exit, her heels clicking softly on the marble floor of a blessedly empty hallway. She followed the museum map she had memorized weeks ago, heading toward the private wing where the Sterling Foundation kept its offices.

Arthur’s study was her target. A small, powerful bug, no bigger than a sequin, was tucked into the clasp of her evening bag. If she could plant it on his desk or behind a book, she could listen to every conversation that decided the fate of the company.

She found the door. Dark oak, with a simple brass plaque that read: A. Sterling.

Her heart hammered in her chest. This was it. The first real step toward justice for her father. Her fingers brushed against the cold metal of the doorknob.

“Looking for something?”

The voice was low and smooth, cutting through the silence like black ice. It came from directly behind her.

Sophie froze. She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Chase Sandon.

She slowly turned, schooling her features into a look of mild confusion. He stood there, impossibly still, his tuxedo perfectly tailored to his lean frame. He wasn’t just in the shadows; he was made of them.

“I’m sorry?” she asked, feigning innocence. “Did you say something?”

“I asked if you were lost,” he said, his eyes unblinking. They were a strange, dark grey, the color of a stormy sea.

“No,” she said. “Just… overwhelmed. I was looking for a quiet place to sit for a moment.”

“This is your grandfather’s study,” he stated. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, I know. I thought…”

“He never lets anyone in here. Not without him. You remember that, don’t you?”

Every word was a test. A pinprick designed to see if she would bleed.

“It’s been ten years,” she said, her voice soft and apologetic. “Some of the household rules are a little hazy.”

“Are they?” He took a step closer. He didn’t invade her personal space, but the intensity of his presence made the hallway feel smaller, tighter. “Funny what a decade can make hazy. And what it can bring into sharp focus.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” she said, holding his gaze. Showing fear would be fatal.

“You remember Cousin Robert’s financial troubles and Aunt Margaret’s favorite lullaby. But you forget that this room is off-limits.” His lips curved into something that wasn’t a smile. It was a weapon. “Selective memory.”

“Trauma does that,” she replied, falling back on her prepared script. “Doctors told me it’s not unusual to have gaps, or for certain memories to be more vivid than others.”

“Ah, yes. The trauma,” he said, his voice dripping with disbelief. “Tell me, does your trauma allow you to remember a cat named Cinder?”

Sophie’s blood ran cold. Cinder. Not in her files. Her research had been exhaustive, covering Ella’s friends, teachers, favorite foods, allergies, the name of her first pony. There was no mention of a cat named Cinder. It was a trap. A deliberate, fatal trap.

She held her breath, her mind racing. He was expecting her to fail. He wanted her to fail. What would the real Ella do? She would be confused. She would question him.

“Cinder?” she asked, tilting her head. “No, I don’t think so. We had a golden retriever, Barnaby. And my pony, Starlight. I don’t recall a cat.”

Chase’s eyes narrowed slightly. He stared at her for a long, silent moment, and Sophie felt like an insect under a microscope.

“You’re right,” he said finally, his voice flat. “There was no cat named Cinder. I just made that up.”

Relief washed over her so intensely her knees felt weak, but she didn’t let it show.

“Why would you do that?” she asked, injecting a note of hurt into her tone.

“Just checking the gaps,” he said smoothly. He took another step, closing the remaining distance between them. He smelled faintly of scotch and cold ambition. “Now tell me about the locket.”

“The locket?”

“The one grandmother gave you. Silver, heart-shaped, with a sapphire chip in the corner. You never took it off.”

This, she knew. It was one of the first things she’d learned. And the first thing she’d had forged. But she wasn't wearing it. That was part of the story.

“It was stolen,” she said simply. “The night I… the night I disappeared. It was all I had left of her.”

His gaze was so intense it felt like he was peeling back her skin to look at her soul. “A shame,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “It would be difficult to replace.”

He was toying with her. A predator playing with its food. He didn’t believe her for a second. She had passed his tests, but she had failed his inspection.

“Is there a reason you’re interrogating me, Chase?” she asked, deciding to push back, just a little. “I’m still Ella. Or have you forgotten?”

His smirk was back, sharp and unsettling. “No one could forget you.”

He reached out, and for a terrifying second, she thought he was going to touch her. Instead, he rested his hand on the wall just beside her head, effectively caging her in.

“The gala is ending,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “Arthur has insisted you come back to the estate. For your safety.”

“I’m sure I’ll be perfectly safe,” she said, her voice steady despite the frantic beating of her heart.

“Oh, I’m sure you will be,” Chase said, his eyes locking onto hers. “I’ll be watching you myself.”

He pushed off the wall and straightened his jacket cuffs. It was a simple, dismissive gesture, but it felt like a declaration of war.

“Welcome home, Ella.”

Chapter 3

Sophie.

The ride to the Sterling estate was a masterclass in silence. Chase sat across from her in the back of a black Maybach, the city lights sliding over his impassive face. He hadn’t said a word since they left the gala. He just watched her.

She tried to appear tired, emotionally drained from her miraculous return. She let her head rest against the cool leather, her eyes half-closed. But every nerve in her body was on fire. He knew. He didn't have proof, but he knew. The cat named Cinder was a test. A test she had passed through sheer luck and quick thinking. He would not stop testing her.

“Are you alright?” she asked, her voice a soft whisper, forcing herself to play the part.

“Perfectly,” Chase replied, his voice flat. “Just enjoying the quiet.”

The car swept through a set of massive iron gates and up a long, winding driveway. The estate was a monster of stone and glass, a modern fortress lit up against the night sky.

As the car stopped, a butler opened her door. Before she could even step out, the main doors of the house opened and the family began to spill out. Aunt Beatrice was in the lead, her expression a mixture of duty and disdain.

“There you are,” Beatrice said. “We were getting worried. We have your old room prepared.”

“Thank you,” Sophie said, stepping onto the gravel. “That’s very kind.”

“We have so much to talk about,” Cousin Robert boomed, coming up beside Beatrice.

Sophie prepared her warmest, most grateful smile. Before she could deploy it, Chase was at her side. He placed a cool, firm hand on her elbow.

“Ella is exhausted,” he announced to the waiting family. His tone left no room for argument. “The doctors warned that she needs rest. No excitement. I’ll see her to her wing myself.”

Beatrice’s thin lips tightened. “Of course. We wouldn’t want to overwhelm her.”

Chase’s grip was like steel. He guided her into the house, past the concerned faces, into a grand foyer with a soaring ceiling and a chandelier that looked like a frozen explosion of diamonds.

“My room is this way, I believe,” Sophie said, gesturing to the west wing, just as her research indicated.

“A change of plans,” Chase said, steering her down a different corridor. It was darker here, lined with portraits of stern-faced ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow them.

“Where are we going?” she asked, a tremor of real fear in her voice. “Chase, I’m tired.”

“It’s not far.”

He stopped in front of a heavy, windowless door made of dark, polished wood. He pressed his thumb against a small, discreet panel beside the frame. There was a soft electronic beep, followed by a heavy click as a magnetic lock disengaged.

“What is this place?” she asked.

“The library,” he said, pushing the door open and nudging her inside.

The room was circular, lined from floor to ceiling with books. A rolling ladder was attached to a brass rail that ran along the top shelf. There was no fireplace, no cozy reading chairs. Just a large, imposing desk in the center of the room and two severe, straight-backed chairs. It felt less like a library and more like a vault.

He followed her in. The door swung shut behind him with a soft whoosh, followed by another heavy, definitive click. They were locked in.

“Alright, Ella,” Chase said. His voice had changed. The smooth, formal tone he used with the family was gone. This was something else. Colder. Sharper. “The party’s over.”

Sophie turned to face him, forcing a look of weary confusion onto her face. “I don’t understand. What party?”

“The one where you pretend to be a long-lost heiress and I pretend to believe you.”

She let out a small, shaky laugh. “Chase, you’re not making any sense. I am Ella. I know it’s been a long time. I know I’ve changed.”

“You haven’t changed,” he said, taking a slow step toward her. “You’ve been manufactured. You did your homework, I’ll give you that. The favorite lullaby, the financial troubles, even the scar. A nice touch, the scar. Very dramatic.”

Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. “My scar is from a riding accident. I was seven.”

“Ella Sterling was afraid of horses. She never had a riding accident.”

A slip. A tiny, insignificant detail her researchers had missed. Or invented. It was over.

“People’s memories change,” she tried, her voice weak.

“Stop,” he commanded. The word was a slap. “Just stop talking.”

He walked to the desk, his movements calm and deliberate. He reached into the inner pocket of his tuxedo jacket and pulled something out. He tossed it onto the polished surface of the desk.

It skidded across the wood and stopped in a pool of light from the overhead lamp. It was a locket. A silver, heart-shaped locket, tarnished with age and dirt, with a tiny, chipped sapphire in the corner.

Sophie stared at it. It was identical to the one she had commissioned, the one she’d claimed was stolen. But this one was real. It held a history her forgery never could.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, her throat suddenly dry. “Where did you find it?”

“Don’t you recognize it?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.

“It’s the locket my grandmother gave me,” she said, playing the final, desperate card. “You found it.”

“I did find it,” he agreed. “Right where it was supposed to be.”

He leaned forward, his hands flat on the desk, his grey eyes boring into her. “It was around her neck when I buried her.”

The air left her lungs. Buried her. The words echoed in the silent, sealed room. The real Ella wasn't just missing. She was dead.

“I don’t…” she started, but the words wouldn’t come out.

“You are an excellent liar,” Chase said, his voice a low, chilling monotone. “One of the best I’ve ever seen. But the woman you are pretending to be died ten years ago. I know this for a fact, because I put her in the ground myself.”

He straightened up, his face a mask of cold, absolute certainty.

“So, I’m going to ask you one more time. Who are you? And what do you want?”

Sophie stood frozen, trapped. The lie had shattered. Her entire plan, months of meticulous preparation, had crumbled to dust in a soundproof room with the only man who knew the truth.

He looked at his watch, a slim, elegant piece of steel on his wrist.

“You have ten seconds to give me a reason not to call the police and have you thrown in a hole so deep you’ll never see the sun again.”

He stared at her, his eyes devoid of mercy.

“Ten.”

“Nine.”

“Eight.”