Obsessed with His Runaway Fake Sister Chapter 2

Three words. No question mark. It was a direct order.

I ignored it.

Thirty seconds later, a second message appeared.

"Come home. Don't make me worry."

I swiped the notification away and opened my airline app, checking for the fastest flight out of the country.

I typed in my ID number. When it came time to input my birth date, my fingers hesitated over the screen.

That birthday didn't belong to me.

March 21st was the birth date of the biological Sinclair daughter.

When was my actual birthday?

I had no idea.

Every single birthday cake I ever had was decorated with candles spelling out those numbers. I had closed my eyes and made a wish on those specific candles for eighteen years.

And every single year, my wish was the exact same. I wished to be Danny's little sister forever.

The irony was suffocating.

I pressed confirm and paid for the ticket.

The electronic boarding pass popped up. Flight to Charles de Gaulle, departing tonight at nine-thirty. Direct.

Now, I just had to make it onto that plane before my legal identity was completely wiped from the system.

An hour later, the bank manager handed me a heavily weighted duffel bag.

"Miss Sinclair, would you like me to arrange a security escort for you?"

I offered a polite, hollow smile. "No thank you. I have my own security waiting."

Dragging my suitcase out of the bank’s glass doors, the biting autumn wind slipped down my collar.

I hailed another cab.

"To the international airport."

Once the car merged onto the highway, I powered my phone down entirely and shoved it deep into the hidden compartment of my luggage.

[The villainess is leaving so decisively, it actually makes me a little sad.]

[Obviously she has to leave now. Once her ID gets flagged, she won't be able to step foot outside the city limits.]

I leaned against the cold leather of the backseat, watching the metal guardrails of the highway blur into a continuous gray ribbon.

The sky gradually darkened into pitch black.

In the distance, a massive commercial jet drifted down the runway, its navigation lights blinking rhythmically against the night.

Inside the terminal, the wait became agonizingly boring. Against my better judgment, I pulled my phone out and turned it back on.

The second the screen illuminated, news notifications flooded my screen like an avalanche.

#SinclairHeiressFound #StandInSisterKickedOut #HeartbreakForTheFakeSister #ColdBloodedSinclairGroup

I tapped on the top trending hashtag.

There was a high-resolution photo of me stumbling out of the hotel, wearing that torn, blood-stained dress, bending down to get into a taxi.

The caption attached to the photo was pure, inflammatory gasoline.

"The real heiress returns and instantly forces the innocent stand-in out onto the streets. Getting kicked out of the Sinclair mansion on the night of her 18th birthday, without even getting a slice of her own cake. The absolute cruelty of the wealthy."

The post had over three hundred million views.

My pupils constricted.

Who took that photo? Who wrote that incredibly specific caption?

I clicked over to the official Sinclair Group corporate account. A freshly pinned PR statement sat at the top of their feed, its phrasing sterile and clinical.

"Miss Sylvia Sinclair, who tragically went missing at the age of three, has been safely located. Due to his profound grief over the years, Mr. Danny Sinclair adopted an orphan bearing a physical resemblance to his sister. Now that the true Miss Sinclair has returned, the adopted individual has been appropriately relocated and compensated. We urge the public not to spread baseless rumors."

The comment section was a war zone of public outrage.

"Appropriately relocated? You mean thrown out onto the street in a torn dress?"

"The real heiress is ruthless. She couldn't even tolerate a girl who kept her brother company for fifteen years?"

"Danny Sinclair is a monster. He raised her like a pet and discarded her the second he didn't need her anymore."

"My heart breaks for the stand-in. Brainwashed into thinking she was family, only to be kicked to the curb."

My fingers went completely numb.

The holographic comments flared to life in front of my face, scrolling frantically.

[Here we go! The villainess is making her move!]

[Playing the ultimate victim to cyberbully the female lead. This is diabolical.]

[I actually thought she changed her ways for a second. Guess a leopard never changes its spots.]

[She’s just trying to use public pressure to force the male lead to beg her to come back. Classic manipulation.]

I stared blankly at the glowing text.

No.

I didn't do this.

I didn't have the time, the energy, or the vast network required to pull this off. A trending topic with three hundred million views doesn't just spontaneously generate in twenty minutes without a professional, highly paid PR firm orchestrating it behind the scenes.

My phone vibrated violently in my palm.

A name flashed across the screen. Danny Sinclair.

Staring at those letters, it felt like a physical hand had reached into my chest and squeezed my heart.

I was terrified to answer.

But I knew exactly what would happen if I didn't. He would unleash his private security to lock down the entire city. And then, just like the floating text predicted, my legs would be broken and I would be thrown into a padded cell.

I knew Danny better than anyone.

To the outside world, he was a refined, elegant aristocrat. But beneath the tailored suits, he was a deeply obsessive, terrifyingly controlling megalomaniac.

This PR disaster was currently roasting his entire corporate empire over an open flame.

He was absolutely furious.

The phone rang for the fourth time.

Taking a shaky breath, I pressed accept and held the phone to my ear.

"Sienna."

His voice was dead calm.

Too calm.

It was the eerie, suffocating stillness right before a hurricane makes landfall.

"Where are you."

I didn't speak.

"I asked you where you are." He repeated it, his voice dropping an octave, sounding like a violin string stretched to its absolute breaking point.

"The airport."

I didn't bother lying. It was pointless. If he wanted to find me, his tech team could trace my GPS coordinates in under five minutes.

Silence heavy with static filled the line.

Then came the strike.

"This circus online. You paid someone to orchestrate this?"

It wasn't a question. It was a guilty verdict.

Every single syllable sounded like it was being ground between his teeth.

My stomach plummeted.

Just as I thought. He was entirely convinced I was the mastermind.