Obsessed with His Runaway Fake Sister Chapter 1

In the city’s elite circles, my brother Danny Sinclair was known for obsessively doting on me. Yet that night, he was holding another girl’s hand, his gaze soft as he guided her to cut the birthday cake meant for me. The girl looked exactly like me—even the burn scar on her wrist was identical.

I was about to storm the stage when lines of glowing text suddenly appeared before my eyes:

[Look at the adopted stand-in. She doesn’t even realize she’s fake, jealous of the real heiress.]

[Spoiler: She’ll go insane trying to win his love. He’ll break her legs and lock her in a psych ward. Total karma.]

My blood ran cold.

Danny spotted me, immediately shielding the girl. His face hardened as he scolded me for making a scene. He declared Sylvia was his real sister and said he’d explain later.

Sylvia. Same face, same scar. I was just a crafted replica.

He’d spent millions on this lavish coming-of-age gala for me, yet earlier that day, he’d locked me in a dark room upstairs. I’d smashed the lock, bleeding, and raced into the hall—only to see this.

Holding back tears, I gave him a hollow smile. Since the real one was back, the understudy could bow out. I pulled out the limitless black card he’d given me and waved it. “Consider this my final performance fee.”

* * *

Leaving Danny and the bewildered guests completely frozen in place, I turned on my heel and walked straight out of the grand banquet hall.

The mirrored walls of the lobby caught my reflection. The exquisite silk of my designer gown was torn at the seam, the hem dragged with dirt, and my meticulously styled hair had mostly fallen out of its pins.

I looked like an absolute wreck.

[Wait, what? She’s just leaving?]

[Yeah, I was totally waiting for her to throw a tantrum and get humiliated by the male lead!]

[This is weird. The villainess isn't supposed to act like this.]

If I hadn't seen those bizarre, floating comments, I probably would have stormed that stage. I would have stood in front of that towering, three-tiered cake and screamed at the top of my lungs in front of hundreds of aristocrats.

I would have yelled that I was the real Sinclair heiress and that the girl beside him was an imposter.

And then, just like the floating text predicted, Danny would have shattered my legs and locked me away in an asylum.

I quickened my pace. Pushing through the revolving glass doors, a blast of cold, post-rain wind hit my face.

I flagged down a passing taxi.

"Take me to the nearest luxury shopping district."

As the car accelerated, the blurring city lights outside the window felt like the last eighteen years of my life being rapidly rewound and erased.

I pulled out my phone and opened my email.

Sitting at the very top of my inbox was an acceptance letter from the Paris Institute of Design. It had been sitting there for exactly seven days.

A week ago, when I first received this email, I was ecstatic. I had sprinted straight into Danny’s private study.

He was signing documents, not even bothering to look up.

"Danny! I got accepted into the Institute in Paris!"

The tip of his fountain pen paused. He finally raised his eyes, his gaze as tepid and clear as a glass of water.

"Paris."

"Yes! They only accept thirty students globally..."

"It's too far." He looked back down at his paperwork, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. "I don't feel safe letting you go abroad alone. I will arrange a prestigious academy for you here in the city."

I stood frozen on his Persian rug.

"But..."

"Sienna." His voice was incredibly gentle, yet coated in an irresistible, crushing authority. "Be a good girl. Listen to me."

And I did. I listened to him.

I shoved my wildest dreams into the deepest drawer of my desk, brainwashing myself into believing he had his reasons. He was only doing what was best for me.

Only now did the ugly truth sink in.

He wasn't afraid of the distance.

He was afraid I would escape.

How could the perfect replica he spent eighteen years meticulously carving be allowed to leave the stage before the authentic masterpiece was safely brought home?

I tapped the screen, hitting the "Accept Offer" button at the bottom of the email.

Eighteen years of living as a caged songbird. Deleted with a single click.

[Holy crap, she's actually leaving?!]

[Wait, isn't she afraid her ID is going to be deactivated? Her entire legal identity belongs to the female lead!]

[The villainess suddenly grew a brain. I can't predict this plot anymore.]

My fingers subconsciously brushed against the raised, jagged scar on my wrist.

I couldn't remember much of anything before the age of five, but one specific, horrifying memory constantly played on a loop in my nightmares.

Danny tightly gripping my tiny, fragile wrist. A small, custom-made iron, glowing red-hot, being pressed directly into my skin.

The sickening smell of burning flesh.

The white smoke curling into the air.

And that agonizing, soul-piercing pain. Every single time the nightmare reached that point, I would wake up screaming.

I once asked him about it. "Danny, what is this scar?"

He stayed silent for a very long time before pulling me into his chest, resting his chin heavily on the top of my head.

"It's a mark."

"It's the absolute proof that you are my little sister."

What a beautiful, twisted lie.

It wasn't a special bond. It was a brand.

Arriving at the shopping district, I quickly bought a change of clothes. A black oversized hoodie, loose jeans, and a pair of canvas sneakers.

Stripping off the blood-stained couture gown, I gripped the handle of my newly purchased forty-eight-inch luggage and headed straight for the bank.

Inside the VIP lounge, the branch manager took one look at my limitless black card and treated me with the reverence usually reserved for royalty.

"Please withdraw two hundred thousand in cash for me."

The manager blinked in shock for a fraction of a second, but his intense professional training instantly kicked in.

"Right away, Miss Sinclair. Please wait just a moment."

[Hahahaha is the villainess afraid the male lead is gonna freeze her accounts?!]

[Honestly, you have to respect the hustle. Secure the bag before he cuts her off.]

[What is two hundred grand gonna do? That card has a limit of at least a hundred million.]

[Yeah, but anything over two hundred thousand requires a three-day advance notice. She's smart.]

I sat on the plush leather sofa, watching the manager disappear behind the vault doors.

My phone screen lit up.

A text message from Danny.

"Where are you."