Stolen by the Fake Heiress

Seraphina's POV

I was seven years old, huddled in the back seat as the car cruised toward this massive villa—my real home, or so they said.

My name used to be Seraphina Miller, but now it was Seraphina Alden. Turns out, I was actually the daughter of the richest family in Orlan Bay: my dad, Conrad Alden, was this big-shot CEO; my mom, Irene Alden, was a glamorous socialite; and my brother, Julian Alden, was this gentle, handsome kid everyone adored. This was supposed to be my family all along, but some other girl had stolen it.

The driver wasn't a jerk like my foster dad, Buck, but he wasn't exactly warm either. He kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror with this pitying stare that made me want to sink into the seat.

"Don't worry, kiddo," he said in that fake-soothing tone adults use, like everything's gonna be peachy. "You're heading home now."

Home. What a load of crap. I'd spent the last seven years with the Millers, my foster family, where my drunk foster dad would beat me and my foster mom senseless. He'd even tried to... touch me in ways that made me barricade my door at night.

The car pulled up to these massive iron gates that swung open automatically. "This is it, little one," the driver said, and I bit back the urge to snap at him. I wasn't anybody's "little one." I was just terrified.

The house was enormous, like something out of a dream—three stories of gleaming white stone, with sparkling windows and gardens full of vibrant flowers. The driveway was paved with polished stones that crunched under the tires.

My legs wobbled as I climbed the front steps, my beat-up sneakers squeaking on the spotless stone. The door was huge—dark wood with shiny gold handles—and it swung open before I could even knock.

Three people sat on a pristine cream sofa that looked like it'd never seen a single crumb. The man—my dad, Conrad—in a sharp suit, with dark hair and piercing green eyes. The woman—my mom, Irene—with her blonde hair pulled back neatly, pearls gleaming around her neck. And the boy, maybe nine, with the same dark hair as Dad—my brother, Julian, who stared with a mix of confusion and quiet kindness.

They all shared those emerald-green eyes, sharp and knowing. Eyes I apparently had too, hidden under my messy bangs.

Irene stood when she saw me, her hand flying to her mouth like she might break. Conrad just stared, his face pale as if he'd seen a ghost. Julian tilted his head, looking more puzzled than anything.

I stood there in my grubby clothes and falling-apart shoes, hair a tangled mess from weeks without a proper brush.

"Seraphina?" Irene's voice was soft, tentative, like she was afraid I'd bolt. "Honey, I'm Irene. Your mom."

Mom. The word hung in the air. I didn't respond—I couldn't. Fear glued my mouth shut.

The silence dragged on until footsteps echoed from the upstairs landing.

A girl appeared at the top of the staircase, looking every bit like a spoiled princess. Perfect blonde curls, a frilly pink dress, and spotless white shoes that had probably never touched dirt. Trailing behind her was a woman in a black uniform and white apron—a nanny, I figured.

The girl—Brielle—was the fake one who'd taken my place. She had these bright blue eyes that didn't match the family's green at all, and buck teeth that jutted out like a rabbit's when she grinned. She was ugly in a way that screamed "outsider."

"Mommy," Brielle chirped in this sickly-sweet voice that made my skin crawl, "is this the maid's kid? Why's she so filthy?"

Irene let out a choked gasp. Conrad's face hardened like stone. Julian just kept watching me, his expression softening a bit, like he sensed something was off.

This girl—this imposter—had been living my life, calling my parents "Mommy" and "Daddy," sleeping in my bed, eating my food, getting all the hugs and stories while I'd been dodging beer bottles and bruises.

"Did my foster mom sell me here?" I whispered, because that's what my seven-year-old mind could make sense of. Adults ditched what they didn't want. "I promise I haven't been bad. I'll be good, I swear."

My knees buckled, and I crumpled onto the flawless white floor, sobbing.

Irene made this heartbroken noise and started crying too, her perfect makeup smearing.

But Brielle just peered down at me with a smug little smirk. "Well, if she's sticking around, she can be my personal maid. I've always wanted one of those."

That's when the front door burst open with a bang that rattled the walls.

"ENOUGH!"

Everyone froze. Even Irene's tears stopped. A man in his fifties stormed in, the air turning icy. Silver hair, those same sharp green eyes.

This had to be Silas Alden. My grandfather.

Brielle immediately perked up, practically bouncing toward him. "Grandpa! Grandpa, you're home!" She threw her arms around his legs, pressing her face against his perfectly tailored suit. "I missed you so much!"

But Silas didn't even glance down at the blonde princess wrapped around his legs. His piercing green gaze—the same color as mine—swept over the room and landed on me.

Without a word, he gently but firmly pried Brielle off him and walked straight toward me. I was still crumpled on the floor in my dirty clothes.

He crouched down until we were eye level, this powerful man getting down on the pristine marble floor to meet me where I was.

"What's your name, little one?"

His voice was rough around the edges but surprisingly gentle. Nothing like Buck's drunken slurring or Misty's sharp nagging. I blinked, thrown off by the kindness in it.

"Seraphina," I said quietly.

"Seraphina." He repeated it like he was tasting something precious. "A beautiful name for a beautiful girl."

I pointed at Princess Buck-Teeth. "Sir, do I have to be her personal maid? Because I'd rather not." My voice cracked despite my best efforts. "I can work to pay back whatever money you spent buying me. Double, even. I'm good at cleaning."