For five years, I was Matt Howard’s lover. In name only. What he loved was my face—the same face as my twin brother, Evan. On nights when the longing became unbearable, he would wrap his hands around my throat, his eyes red with torment, and ask, "Daniel, why wasn't it you who died?" 1 I stopped fighting, letting Matt steal the air from my lungs. His shattered, broken expression warped in my blurring vision. He had so many moments like this over the past five years. One second, he’d kiss me like he wanted to devour me. The next, he'd want my life. An offering to my dead twin, Evan. I let all the disgust and hatred in my heart boil over, choosing the cruelest words I could find, twisting the knife with every sentence. "Don't pretend you're so devoted. When Evan was alive, where was all this love? He would have torn his heart out for you! And you? You just used him as a pawn in your games against my father! Go on, kill me! Then the only place you'll ever see this fucking face again is on a goddamn tombstone!" …Running my mouth always earned me a beating. The worst was two years ago, on the anniversary of Evan's death. Matt wiped a smear of blood from his lip where I'd bitten him and dragged me to the floor. He grabbed the solid brass stand of the floor lamp and, without hesitation, brought it down on my knee. Twice. I bit my lip to stifle a scream, but involuntary tears streamed down my face. "Now, you're even more like him," Matt said, planting his foot on the back of my knee and twisting his heel. I trembled violently, my vision spotting with black. I couldn't hold back a guttural, agonized cry. Matt knelt, one hand gripping my chin, the other gently brushing the sweat-drenched hair from my forehead. He pulled me into his arms, his voice a choked whisper. "Evan, I miss you so much." I convulsed in his embrace. Matt, I want you… to die! But tonight, I was tired. Utterly exhausted. I let go of all the resentment and bitterness. If our five years of mutual torture could only end with one of us dead, then fine. Let it be me. I let Matt’s face dissolve into a blur… "Cough! Cough!" He suddenly let go. Air rushed into my lungs. I coughed violently, snot and tears streaming down my face, a pathetic clown once again. Matt pulled away, standing over me as I curled into a ball on the bed. His voice was low and cold. "Evan saved your life. You're not allowed to die." Fucking psycho. He was the one who'd just tried to kill me. I finally managed to stop coughing, the agony of suffocation receding. I ignored the state of my clothes, which were barely covering anything, and lay sprawled on the bed, staring at the ceiling. My voice was hollow. "Matt, it's been five years. Aren't you tired of this game? If Evan knew, he wouldn't want to see you like this." It was the first time in five years I'd said anything that even resembled comfort. If he had half a brain, he’d understand I was surrendering, that I didn't want to fight anymore. But the next moment, Matt was on top of me again, his long, muscular thigh forcing its way between mine. I was bewildered. In all the years he'd kept me, Matt had only ever treated me as a substitute, as the man responsible for his lover's death. He had always stopped short of the final act. All the kisses, the touches, the bites—they were all expressions of his rage. This new, intimate position… I didn't understand it. Was this some new form of torture? I tried to squirm away, but he pinned my shoulders to the bed. "Daniel, this game between us… you don't get a say in when it starts or when it ends." He crushed his mouth to mine. And his hand went for the waistband of my pants. A jolt of alarm shot through me. I shoved him hard. "What are you doing?" Lust flared in his eyes. A stray thought, completely inappropriate for the moment, crossed my mind: Is that for Evan, or for me? Then I heard the raw violence in Matt's voice as he pressed his knee against me. "Give it up, Daniel. This is your life now." 2 I don't know how much time passed. My body felt hot and limp. In a daze, I thought I saw Evan. He was angry with me, demanding to know why I was sleeping with the man he loved. I wanted to tell him I was a straight man, for fuck's sake, and I didn't want this either. But the words wouldn't come out, and I clawed at the air in frustration. Evan's crying grew more intense until his face dissolved into a bloody, mangled mess. Just like it had been after the car sent him flying… "Evan!" I cried out, reaching for him, but my hands closed on empty air. I couldn't catch the brother hit by the car. I couldn't catch the fading ghost who blamed me. … "Daniel, it's me." A calm, low voice, like a gentle but firm wind, blew away the chaotic images in my mind. I opened my eyes and saw Dr. Miles Vance sitting beside me. I was gripping his arm so tightly the sleeve of his pristine white shirt was a wrinkled mess. I quickly let go, my voice hoarse. "Sorry." He placed a hand on my forehead, his elegant eyes behind his glasses looking away, avoiding my gaze. "The fever's broken." "Mmm," I grunted, glancing at the gloomy sky outside. "How long was I out?" "Thirty-two hours." He checked the sleek, gray-diamond watch on his wrist. Every part of my body ached when I moved. A searing pain shot through me from a certain… area. I gritted my teeth and pushed myself up to lean against the headboard. "Thanks. Every time something happens, I'm always troubling you." "Matt pays me to do a job," Miles said without looking up, methodically organizing his medical kit. Then, unexpectedly, his movements became clumsy, instruments clattering together. He shot to his feet and leaned over me, his perfectly handsome face inches from mine, the corners of his eyes tinged with red. "Daniel, trust me. I can help you." I stared at him and shook my head with a bitter smile. This was the second time I had refused his help. Miles was Matt’s private doctor. He was the one who took care of me when I was sick and a few pills wouldn't cut it. He was the one Matt called two years ago when my knee was shattered. That was the first time I'd seen the usually cool and composed Miles lose control. He'd scooped me up, his voice a low growl. "He needs to go to the hospital! Otherwise, he'll lose that leg!" But Matt had just laughed. "That's the point. Evan broke his leg for me. This substitute of his needs to be a little more dedicated." I had leaned my head against Miles's chest, feeling his heart hammer against his ribs. He had looked down at me, his lips trembling. Then, ignoring Matt's protests, he took me to his hospital. After the anesthesia from the surgery wore off, I was drenched in a cold sweat from the pain. Miles had pushed his glasses up his nose, as if making a decision. "Daniel, your father's debt… I can find a way to deal with it." I was surprised. He was Matt's friend, yet he wanted to pull me from the fire. But this was a fire I had to endure. I had to stay by Matt's side as Evan's stand-in, so he would be merciful and not pursue the massive debt my father owed him. Otherwise, my father wouldn't survive. I pushed the memory away, avoiding Miles's sincere gaze. "I'm fine now, Doctor. You can go." I could hear him grinding his teeth. But he didn't say anything more. He picked up his kit and left. He ran into Matt at the door. It was slightly ajar, and I could hear their conversation clearly. "Is he okay?" Matt's tone was dismissive. Miles's composure was back in place. "The fever's gone. But the tearing down there will need time to heal." He paused, then added, "Matt, control yourself." Matt snorted. "That's what you're for, isn't it? He won't die." Then he pushed the door open and came in. I looked away. Matt sat on the edge of the bed and placed a takeout bag on the nightstand. "You must be hungry. Eat." It wasn't a question; it was an order. I looked at the bag. Spicy rabbit heads. "Isn't this your favorite? Don't leave any," he said, opening the container and handing it to me with a pair of disposable gloves. "I'm not hungry." Matt didn't move. His cold, dark eyes were fixed on me. Resigned, I put on the gloves and took the container. One bite, and my mouth was on fire. Matt pulled out his phone and brought up a security feed. It was a video of my conversation with Miles just moments before. "Daniel, I know your every move. Don't even think about trying anything. It's useless." A chill shot up my spine. I glanced around, trying to spot the hidden camera. I lowered my head and continued to gnaw on the rabbit head. It was so spicy. Why else would I be crying? 3 This went on for over a month. By the time Matt dragged me along to the golf course again, I had lost a significant amount of weight. I looked frail, almost delicate. Matt’s friends chatted and laughed amongst themselves, occasionally shooting me looks of open mockery. I stood beside them, holding Matt’s clubs, feeling like one of the golf balls they were hitting around. One of them, a guy named Kai, casually tossed a ball in the air, then pointed at me with a smirk. "Danny-boy, be a dear and go fetch that for me." The chatter died down. All eyes were on me. A palpable sense of cruel anticipation filled the air. I didn't move. Looking at their arrogant, youthful faces, I wondered what the old Daniel would have done. He would have charged in, kicking and punching until they begged for mercy. No, back then, no one would have dared to mock me like this. My father and my brother were my shields, protecting me from all of life's storms. My world was smooth sailing, full of flattery. "Danny-boy" was a name associated with a carefree, glamorous life. Now, that shield was shattered, and the storm had hit. Even the nobodies who couldn't get near me before could now amuse themselves by humiliating me. "Go on, fetch," Kai taunted, his eyes roaming over my body before landing on the small white dot in the distance. "Or I'll tell Matt. I hear he has some… creative ways of dealing with people." "One moment," I said, my voice so calm it surprised even me. I placed Matt’s club in the bag and, ignoring the sharp pain in my left knee, walked toward the ball. Matt was in the VIP lounge on an urgent work call. Before he left, he’d made me act as his caddy, fetching his ball a dozen times without my cane. He wanted to torture my bad leg. It was working. My limp was more pronounced than ever. I was only a few steps out and already sweating from the pain. Just as I finally reached the ball and could see Kai's triumphant smirk, he threw another one. Even farther. "Danny-boy," he called out in a singsong voice. "If you would be so kind—" I squeezed the ball in my hand, fighting the urge to hurl it at his smug face. I turned to get the second ball. A wave of laughter erupted behind me, a celebration of their victory over me. By the time I returned, I could barely lift my left leg. I was almost at Kai's feet when I tripped on a tuft of grass and fell to my knees. The ball rolled out of my hand. Matt, who had just returned, stopped it with his foot. Kai suppressed a laugh. "Well, look at that, Matt. It’s not even a holiday and Danny-boy is showing his respect." Matt ignored him and walked over to me, extending a hand. I looked up at his emotionless face, unsure if I should take it. "You like kneeling?" he asked, his tone sharp. I took his hand. He pulled me up and didn't let go, leading me forward slowly. "Hand me a club," he ordered. The moment the club was in his hand, there was a flash of silver. "Ah—!" Kai screamed, clutching his knee as he collapsed, wailing in agony. Matt casually tossed the dented club aside and planted his foot on the writhing Kai. "Matt!" the others started to protest. Matt shot them a look that could kill, and they fell silent. "Even if Daniel is just my plaything, he's my plaything. Who the hell are you to humiliate him?" "J-Matt, I'm sorry—" Kai blubbered, snot and tears streaming down his face. "Crawl over there and apologize." Kai scrambled across the grass to my feet. "Danny-boy, I'm sorry, I'll never do it again, please forgive me…" The others now looked at me with a mixture of fear and awe. But all I felt was like a dog borrowing its master's power. It was pathetic. I took a step back. "Don't be like that. Get up." SMACK! Matt slapped me across the face, so hard my ears rang. The stinging pain eventually subsided. "He's apologizing to you," Matt's voice was sharp. "That's me giving you face. You take it." The flicker of warmth I'd felt when he'd offered me his hand was brutally extinguished by that slap, twisted into a deep, loathing for myself. I was so fucking pathetic, falling in love with a monster like him. 4 Matt was sick. In five years, I’d barely heard him cough. But now he was shivering, curled up on the large bed in the villa's medical room, all his sharp, cold edges softened, like a fragile, wounded animal. I sat by his bed, studying the feverish flush on his face. On impulse, I reached out and gently traced the line of his eyebrow. The heat from his skin traveled up my fingertips and settled in my heart, a searing brand that made me flinch. A soft cough came from the doorway. I snatched my hand back and turned to see Miles standing there, medical kit in hand, his expression unreadable. "Doctor." Miles nodded, took a white coat from the closet, disinfected himself, and then began to examine Matt. I moved to an armchair in the corner, out of the way. After a moment, Miles said calmly, "It's nothing. Just exhaustion." "He's always been so healthy, and he's always so busy. Before…" "Are you worried about him?" Miles interrupted, tilting his head. The question caught me off guard. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I just nodded. "I do his regular check-ups; I know his condition well. The human body has its limits. Even someone made of iron needs to rest when they reach their breaking point. The fever is just his body's cry for help. A good sleep and a few days of rest will do the trick." "Okay, thank you." Miles started an IV for Matt. The movement disturbed him, and he tossed and turned restlessly. "Daniel." The whisper was so faint I wasn't sure I'd heard my own name. In disbelief, but with a flicker of hope, I leaned in closer. "Daniel, I'm cold." As if under a spell, I gently tucked the blankets around him. The next second, Miles yanked me away, his calm features contorted with anger. "Daniel, if I weren't here, were you going to climb in and warm him up yourself?" He'd hit a nerve. I looked away. "Daniel, you're sick," Miles said, his voice heavy with pain, as if I were terminally ill. "I think you need to see a psychiatrist. I have a friend who's an expert in this field. I'll send you his contact." Miles took out his phone, his fingers trembling slightly as he swiped across the screen—not the steady hand of a surgeon. "I'm fine, Doctor." He didn't seem to hear me. My phone vibrated. It was the psychiatrist's contact card from Miles. "Stockholm syndrome can be completely cured with timely intervention." "Doctor, I said I'm fine. I don't need a psychiatrist." I turned to leave. Miles followed me out, cornering me on the stair landing. "Daniel, you can't love Matt." Hearing it spoken so plainly, I lost all energy to argue or deny it. I slumped against the wall, defeated. "But I do. I'm just that much of a pathetic mess. Matt is handsome, he's the king of this city, and he's fucked me more times than I can count. Is it so wrong to love him?" Miles took off his glasses, his expression pained, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just leave me alone, Doctor. Let me rot." I pushed past him and started down the stairs. "Daniel, have you never been suspicious about your brother's death?"
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