Chapter 6
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Her finger froze above the mouse, suddenly afraid to click.
Three months of work—countless late nights, endless revisions, Ethan's exacting guidance—all came down to this message. After three steadying breaths, she clicked.
"Dear Ms. Rachel Adams: We are pleased to inform you that your work 'Healing Light' has been selected as a finalist in the 24th International Young Designers Competition…"
The remaining text blurred as tears filled her eyes. Rachel covered her mouth to stifle a gasp.
She'd made it. One of just five finalists worldwide.
"What's got you so animated?"
Ethan's voice from the doorway startled her. He stood leaning against the frame, a stack of documents in hand, one eyebrow slightly raised.
"Mr. Blake! I—I'm a finalist!" Rachel could barely contain her excitement.
Something in Ethan's expression shifted, his features softening as a rare smile appeared. "Congratulations."
That single word warmed her more than effusive praise from anyone else could have. Despite his distant demeanor these past months, Ethan had quietly supported her—adjusting her schedule to allow more design time, "coincidentally" offering advice when she struggled, even draping his jacket over her shoulders when she'd fallen asleep at her desk…
"The finals are in Milan in two weeks," Rachel said, trying to steady her voice. "I'll need to present in person."
"The company will cover all expenses," Ethan said without hesitation.
"That's not necessary," Rachel protested. "This is my personal project, I couldn't possibly—"
"Consider it Blake Industries' investment in exceptional talent," Ethan interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. "Be ready to leave Wednesday."
Rachel bit her lip. "Thank you, sir."
Ethan turned to leave, then paused. "Your work is exceptional." With that, he was gone, leaving Rachel awash in conflicting emotions.
The next days passed in a whirlwind of activity.
Rachel had to transfer her ongoing projects, prepare competition materials, and still visit her father at the hospital. His condition had been touch-and-go since the hemorrhage, only recently showing signs of stability.
"Dad, I'm going to Italy for a design competition," Rachel explained as she peeled an apple at his bedside. "Just for a week. Nurse Wang will check on you daily."
Mr. Adams, propped against his pillows, still spoke with some difficulty, but his eyes shone with pride. "My little girl, making it big. Your mother would be so proud."
Rachel's throat tightened. Her mother had died when she was young; her father had raised her alone, nurturing her artistic talents and sacrificing to send her to design school.
If not for his sudden collapse, he'd still be in his small tailor shop, measuring clients and crafting suits with his skilled hands.
"By the way," her father asked, his speech still slightly slurred, "is that boss of yours treating you right?"
Rachel's hand stilled momentarily. "Yes, Mr. Blake has been very supportive."
"Good." He nodded, satisfied. "Remember to be grateful for opportunities."
Darkness had fallen by the time she left the hospital. Checking her watch, Rachel decided to return to the office for some documents. Ethan would surely be gone by now, giving her space to work undisturbed.
Blake Tower remained illuminated against the night sky. The security guard nodded in recognition. "Working late again, Ms. Adams?"
"Just picking up some files," she replied with a tired smile.
The elevator whisked her to the executive floor. The office stood empty, only emergency lights casting a soft glow over the workstations. Rachel switched on her desk lamp and gathered the materials she needed.
As she organized her papers, she remembered a reference book still on Ethan's shelf. After a moment's hesitation, she headed to his office—he'd given her access specifically for retrieving work materials.
The office was dark. She found the light switch and located the book—"Contemporary Architectural Space Psychology"—exactly where she'd last seen it. As she turned to leave, she noticed a door beside his desk standing slightly ajar.
This was Ethan's private study—a space rumored to be off-limits even to Marcus. Yet now it stood partially open, light spilling through the gap.
"Mr. Blake?" she called softly. Silence answered.
She should have left immediately. Instead, some inexplicable curiosity drew her forward. She pushed the door wider. "Hello?"
The study was empty but fully lit. As Rachel began to retreat, something on the wall stopped her cold.
An entire wall was covered with her work—from university projects to recent designs, all professionally framed. Beside them hung photographs of her: concentrating at her desk, smiling while presenting to the Design Department, standing in her emerald dress at the gala…
Centermost hung her competition entry, "Healing Light," covered with Ethan's red-ink annotations. Surrounding it were sticky notes detailing her concepts and his suggestions.
Rachel's heart hammered against her ribs, her feet frozen to the floor. What was this? Why would Ethan have photos of her? Why collect her work so… obsessively?
"Rachel?"
The deep voice behind her made her spin around. Ethan stood in the doorway, jacket draped over one arm, clearly having returned to retrieve something.
His eyes moved from her face to the wall behind her, and his expression hardened instantly.
The air between them seemed to crystallize. Rachel tried to speak but couldn't form words. Ethan's ears reddened visibly before his entire expression darkened.
"I—I came for a reference book," she finally managed, holding up the volume like a shield. "The door was open. I didn't mean to—"
Ethan strode forward, positioning himself between Rachel and the wall. "Get out." His voice could have frozen flame.
Rachel had never seen him like this—his carefully constructed facade cracking to reveal raw anger and something else—was it fear?
"Mr. Blake, I don't understand why—"
"I said GET OUT!" The words exploded from him.
Rachel flinched, the book tumbling from her fingers.
As she bent to retrieve it, she noticed Ethan's desk drawer slightly open, revealing the corner of a photo frame. From her angle, she glimpsed a woman's profile—someone with features eerily similar to her own.
Sophia Wells.
The name hit her like a physical blow. Rachel straightened, blinking back sudden tears. "I apologize for the intrusion."
She fled the study, hurrying across the main office toward the elevator. No footsteps followed—only crushing silence.
As the elevator doors closed, Rachel's composure finally shattered.
Victor had been right all along. She was nothing but a substitute, a placeholder for someone Ethan had lost. The support, the guidance, the subtle kindnesses—none were for her. They were for Sophia Wells, the ghost she resembled.
Outside, the night air felt harsh against her tear-streaked face. Rachel walked blindly, her vision blurred by tears.
How naive she'd been to think Ethan valued her talent, her mind—when all along it was just her face, her resemblance to someone else.
Her phone vibrated. Through tears, Rachel saw the hospital's number and her stomach dropped.
"Ms. Adams, your father's condition has deteriorated suddenly. We're performing emergency procedures…" The nurse's voice was tense. "Please come immediately."
Rachel's world tilted on its axis. She flagged down a taxi with shaking hands and gave the hospital address.
Through the window, city lights blurred into meaningless streaks of color.
…
The taxi took a sharp corner. Rachel saw the truck barreling toward them too late.
Time slowed—blinding headlights, the driver's shout, the sickening crunch of metal against metal, then nothing but pain and darkness.
"Ms. Adams? Can you hear me?"
A voice pulled her from the void. Rachel forced her eyes open, squinting against harsh fluorescent lights. Her head throbbed with each heartbeat, pain radiating through her body.
"Nurse Chen," she croaked, "my father…"
"Your father is stable," the nurse assured her. "You've been unconscious for two hours. The doctor is concerned about possible concussion."
Car accident. The words filtered slowly through the fog in her mind.
Fragments of memory reassembled—the phone call, the taxi, the truck's headlights…
"I need to see him," Rachel tried to sit up but gasped as pain shot through her ribs.
"Please don't move," the nurse eased her back down. "Your father's been moved to a private room with specialized care. Mr. Blake arranged everything."
Rachel blinked in confusion. "Mr. Blake?"
"Your boss," the nurse nodded. "He arrived right after you were brought in. Moved your father to the VIP wing, called in specialists from across the country. He just stepped out to take a call."
Rachel's thoughts whirled. How had Ethan known? Why would he help after what happened?
The door opened, and Ethan entered. His jacket was gone, his white shirt stained with what looked like blood—her blood? His face was drawn, dark circles prominent beneath his eyes. When he saw she was conscious, visible relief washed over him.
"You're awake," he said, approaching her bed. His voice held none of its usual sharpness. "How do you feel?"
Rachel didn't know how to respond. Hours ago, she'd discovered his obsessive collection; now he appeared at her bedside like a concerned… what? Friend? Employer? Something else entirely?
"I'm okay," she managed. "Thank you for helping my father."
Ethan dismissed her thanks with a gesture, then turned to the nurse. "Could we have a moment?"
The nurse nodded and slipped out. Suddenly the room felt too small, the silence between them too heavy.
"The accident was my fault," Rachel said finally. "I was upset, distracted…"
"Because of me," Ethan stated. Not a question.
Rachel didn't deny it. "How is my father, really?"
"Stable, but requiring specialized long-term care." Ethan's voice returned to its businesslike tone. "I've consulted with neurological specialists. The consensus is that a rehabilitation center in Switzerland offers his best chance for recovery."
Switzerland? The cost would be astronomical…
Reading her expression, Ethan continued, "Cost is not a concern. I can—"
"No." Rachel shook her head firmly. "You've done too much already. I couldn't possibly—"
"Rachel." Ethan cut her off, then did something that shocked her—he knelt beside her bed so they were at eye level. "Hear me out first."
This close, Rachel could see that his eyes weren't simply black but contained flecks of deep amber, like fine coffee. The usual coldness had vanished, replaced by something complex and unreadable.
"I have a proposition," he said, each word deliberate. "Marry me."
Rachel stared at him, wondering if her concussion was causing hallucinations. "What?"
"A marriage of convenience," he clarified quickly. "One year. I'll cover your father's medical expenses, you'll be free to pursue your design career. After a year, we can divorce quietly if you wish."
Rachel's mind went blank. The proposal was insane, yet Ethan's expression couldn't have been more serious.
"Why?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Why would you do this?"
Something flickered in Ethan's eyes. "Because I owe you."
"Because of Sophia Wells?" The words escaped before she could stop them.
Ethan's entire body tensed. "Who told you that name?"
"Reynolds. He said I resemble her." Rachel forced herself to meet his gaze. "Those photos in your study—it's all because I look like her, isn't it?"
Ethan's expression closed off. He stood and walked to the window, his back to her, shoulders rigid. "Sophia is part of my past. My proposal has nothing to do with her."
"Then what is it about?"
Ethan turned, his gaze steady. "It's about you."
His words were like a dull blade to her heart. She wanted desperately to believe him, but the evidence in his study told a different story.
"I need time to think," she said quietly.
"Of course," he nodded. "But regardless of your decision, you will compete in Milan. The arrangements are made."
Rachel looked up in surprise. "You already—"
"Talent should never be buried," he echoed his own words, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. "That's non-negotiable."
Fresh tears welled in Rachel's eyes.
Even if she was just a replacement, his belief in her talent was both heartbreaking and intoxicating.
"Thank you," she whispered, not knowing herself whether she meant the competition, her father's care, or the bizarre marriage proposal.
Ethan checked his watch. "You should rest." He walked to the door, then paused. "Whatever you decide, Rachel, I'll respect your choice."
The soft click of the door seemed unnaturally loud in the silent room.
Rachel stared at the ceiling, her mind racing. Logic dictated she refuse—a fake marriage? It was madness.
Yet her father's medical bills were crushing her, and Milan represented the opportunity of a lifetime.
Most confusing was Ethan's motivation. Was it guilt? Was it because of Sophia? Or could he possibly care for her as herself?
Outside her window, the first light of dawn broke through the clouds.
Rachel made her decision: Whatever Ethan's reasons, he'd offered her a lifeline. She had no choice but to take it.
