Daan drove home with his hands strangling the leather steering wheel, his honey-colored eyes locked on that wedding band—Finn's ring—now adorning his own finger. The cold metal burned against his skin, a constant reminder of his deception. Every mile was another step in his meticulous plan, a chess game he'd been obsessively preparing for months. He'd sacrificed everything for this moment: his beloved piercings, the chestnut mane that had earned him so much admiration, even his own identity. Now he wore Finn's perfectly trimmed haircut—that bland style he despised. He caught his reflection in the rearview mirror and saw his brother's eyes staring back. The resemblance was perfect... disgustingly Finn. Finn, the worthless bastard. The sniveling little brother who'd hidden behind him at the orphanage. The same ungrateful shit who'd spat in his face after everything he'd done for him: "You're an embarrassment. Never contact me again." A dry, bitter laugh escaped his lips, echoing through the stolen Porsche. Who did that asshole think he was? As if they didn't share the same rotten blood, as if they hadn't survived their father's fists together, the beatings at the orphanage, the freezing nights without food. Now Finn was the perfect doctor, the golden boy with his medical degree, his luxury home, and... that woman. A goddess like her with such a flavorless man? With that bowl of unsalted mashed potatoes? His knuckles whitened under the pressure on the wheel. Kidnapping Finn had been easier than expected. All it took was approaching him at that bar where he drowned his sorrows, pretending to be a concerned colleague, then... driving him straight to that abandoned warehouse that still reeked of cheap disinfectant and broken promises. Outside, rain lashed the windshield like the sky itself wept for his betrayal. Droplets slid down the glass like crystal tears, illuminated by the headlights of a car he could never afford (not even if he scammed half of Amsterdam). But nothing burned hotter in his chest than the memory of Finn's wife, now sleeping in his bed, wearing his ring... Marked as his, even if she didn't know it yet. The door's creak sliced through the silence like a knife. Daan stepped inside with his heart hammering against his ribs, soaked not just by the storm but by the cold sweat dripping down his back. "Please let her be asleep," he begged silently, gliding like a ghost through the foyer he'd only observed from afar for weeks. Finn's doctor's coat was too tight, further proof that his brother had always been weaker, smaller. He just needed to reach the bed before she noticed the man who'd left that morning wasn't the one returning tonight. But fate had never been kind to him. The living room light blazed on suddenly, blinding him like a police interrogation lamp. Shit. Shit. Shit. "Hey, lieveling..." His voice came out too warm, too vibrant for Finn's. He swallowed hard, forcing his posture into his twin's characteristic stiffness. "There was an emergency at the hospital. Forgot to text." A lie. The cheap whiskey he'd doused himself with (the same stench that turned his stomach) now burned his nostrils. But the worst part wasn't the smell, or the ill-fitting clothes, or even the fear of discovery. It was her gaze. She didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched him with those eyes that seemed to see right through him, tearing away layer after layer of his perfect disguise. "Let's go to bed, yeah?" He reached for her—finally, finally touch her—but froze mid-motion at her expression. Daan forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes, dropping to a saccharine whisper: "You mad at me? Tomorrow I'll take you to that French bistro you love... But tonight... come to bed with me." Please, he thought, feeling a treacherous tremor in his fingers, don't notice I'm not him.