Prologue To cure my adopted younger brother’s depression, Chandra Thorn-my childhood sweetheart and fiancée who grew up with me in the orphanage—chose to betray me. She secretly registered her marriage with him. Not long after, my brother inherited all of my birth parents’ private hospitals and pharmaceutical companies. In a fit of rage, I agreed to a marriage alliance with Winona Lowell, heiress to a California real estate empire. On our wedding day, she confessed tearfully that she had loved me for 14 years in silence and had finally waited long enough to call me hers. After the wedding, I brought along my beloved Steinway piano and moved into the Beverly Hills villa under Winona’s name, cutting off all contact with the Xander family. For the next seven years, I spoiled her to the bone. We spent every night entangled in passion, and she clung to me as if starved for touch. The world saw her as a ruthless businesswoman, but only I knew she couldn’t fall asleep without me in her arms. Even when traveling for business, she insisted on video calling me before bed. I truly believed I had finally found happiness. Until one night, after we made love, I went to the bathroom to clean up—only to accidentally overhear her on a phone call with her bestie on the balcony: “Yvon is back in LA and opening a new medical lab. You’re still not divorcing Evan?” Winona’s voice drifted in through the door, laced with a contempt I’d never heard before. “You think I enjoy screwing him? Though I’ll admit, his pianist fingers aren’t bad…” “In the end, it’s just being with someone you don’t love. What’s the difference? And I need to keep an eye on him. I can’t let him threaten what Yvon worked so hard to inherit.” My hands shook as I opened her study computer. In a hidden folder labeled “Lab M”, I found over a hundred thousand photos of Yvon Xander. • “White coat close-up from med school graduation.” • “Candid from international medical forum.” The most recent one was taken just last week—while she was supposedly on a business trip. In the corner of the image, her signature red nail polish was unmistakable. There were also a hundred unsent love letters. If I still refused to see the truth, then I truly deserved to be deceived. I bought a synthetic corpse online and set a fire. From this day forward, not even death would reunite us. *** I cleared the fogged-up mirror and stared at my pale face and bloodshot eyes. Water droplets slid down the ends of my hair. The scent of Winona’s perfume still clung to my skin, mingling with the mint of the body wash—a strange, almost eerie harmony. “Evan, need a towel?” Her voice came through the door, drowsy and satisfied from what we’d just done. “No, I’m good. Almost done.” My knuckles whitened as I pressed down on the edge of the sink. Fifteen minutes ago, we were still tangled together in the bedroom of the Beverly Hills mansion she owned. Winona had been unusually passionate today, her nails raking red lines across my back like she needed proof I was real. Today marked our seventh wedding anniversary. I thought it was her way of showing love. Until I overheard her conversation with her best friend. Winona stood on the balcony, her back to me, phone pressed to her ear, city lights of Los Angeles glittering in the dark. “Of course I know—Yvon gets back LA today.” My steps froze. “You think I actually enjoy screwing him?…” She lowered her voice gradually, but each word stabbed into me like a blade. The doorframe creaked beneath my hand. She turned at the sound. “Evan? Is that you…?” I’d already slipped back into the bathroom and locked the door. The man in the mirror stared back at me—eyes red, lips twitching in silent tremors. So this was the truth. Seven years of marriage. Fourteen years of secret love. All of it—lies. She’d never loved me. It was always Yvon Xander—the man my father adopted as my “brother”. I cranked the faucet to full. Ice-cold water blasted down my body. The roar drowned everything else, except the shards of memory stabbing into my mind like broken glass— The glances she exchanged with Yvon at every family gathering. How she always left the room when I played “Mariage d’Amour.” The way her gaze burned through the veil on our wedding day—aimed not at me, but at the best man. Seven years ago, when my fiancée Chandra Thorn chose Yvon over me, I thought I’d lost everything. Then Winona appeared, promising to erase all my pain. How ironic. The two women I trusted most… both chose Yvon. I turned off the water, dried myself off. By the time I opened the bathroom door, I’d already put on the perfect mask. Winona sat at the edge of the bed, hands clenched, knuckles white. She looked up. “Just now, I—” “What were you talking about with friend?” I cut her off, voice calm as I walked to the wardrobe and pulled out a robe. I turned around—and met her perfectly painted smile. “Nothing important…” She had stood on the balcony for quite a while. Now, after warming up indoors, she cautiously wrapped her arms around me from behind. “Why aren’t you asleep yet?” “Waiting for you, so we can sleep together.” She rubbed my back with her full breasts. That familiar softness, that warmth I used to treasure—now it only made my heart ache. For seven years, I had adored her. Spoiled her. In the circles of California’s elite, everyone knew Winona Lowell was madly in love with her classical pianist husband. She once said she’d fallen for me at first sight. That she’d secretly loved me for fourteen years. At our wedding, she cried while confessing she never imagined I would actually marry her. She knew everything about my past. She used her family’s influence to fight against Chandra Thorn after she left me, and even tried to sabotage Yvon’s pharmaceutical ventures for my sake. She said she resented anyone who’d ever hurt me. She played her part so well—better than any Oscar-winning actress. She always liked to call me Evan right before she came — but the tone was always… off. I used to think it was just her voice trembling from pleasure. But looking back now, I’m afraid she was calling my brother’s name — Yvon — all along. I looked down and quietly unclenched my fist, smoothing the veins rising on my hand. She didn’t notice. She kept talking. “Your brother opened a new lab in LA. The government’s hosting a ceremony in two days. Stay home with me, okay? I don’t want you running into him and getting upset.” I silently counted—this was at least the hundredth time she’d come up with an excuse to keep me from attending public events. I used to think she was just possessive, loving me too much. So I tolerated everything. At the peak of my music career, I chose to retire early. I distanced myself from the pharmaceutical world, even though I had a more advanced medical license than Yvon—and a degree in business management on top of it. Now I know—it was all to clear the path for him. “I’ve got a meeting with Tina tomorrow,” I said casually. “She asked me to perform at her promotion ceremony in three days. I promised I’d go.” “That Tina looks at you like she wants to eat you alive. I’m worried she’s after your good looks.” She even pretended to be jealous. She knew I never cared for fame or fortune, only classical piano. And I was good at it. I once told her: playing at the Burbank Music Hall was my dream. Tina’s ceremony would be held there—in just three days. Tina was both a fan and a friend. She had invited me specially. But Yvon always mocked my music, and Winona used that to her advantage. She’d repeatedly guilt me into quitting, claiming she feared female groupies would try to seduce me. When I didn’t respond, she pouted slightly, “Honey, can’t you just give me a little more reassurance? There will always be parties, but our time together is what really matters, isn’t it?” I forced a smile. “Don’t worry. On that day, I’ll give you a surprise gift.” The freshly changed sheets smelled faintly of lavender. I picked up my phone and pulled up the floor plan for the concert hall. Burbank Music Hall. Wooden architecture. Outdated electrical systems. A perfect venue. My fingers swiped across the screen, marking key spots. The fuse box beneath the piano. The curtain control rigs. The backstage emergency exits. A plan was forming—A fire spectacular enough to make headlines, yet harmless to others. I glanced at her sleeping face, peaceful and sated. And in my heart, I whispered— Just three more days, Winona. Then I’ll disappear from your world—forever.
Two days later, I attended the opening ceremony of the laboratory that Yvon Xander had invested in. Winona linked her arm with mine as we entered, and all eyes turned toward us — the perfect pairing of California’s real estate queen and her pianist husband. “Mr. Xander!” Tina waved at me, beside her, Yvon smiled brightly. Tina Thompson, Director of California’s Urban Planning Department, , was an audience I saved at my solo recital six months ago. She had suffered a sudden heart attack, and I had used my trained emergency skills to pull her back from death. Today she wore a crisp white suit, her blonde hair pinned up—a striking contrast to the sea of evening gowns. “Mr. Xander,” she took my hand, her blue eyes sincere as she leaned in to whisper, “The development permit for that land has been approved. Mrs. Xander’s project can move forward on schedule.” I was surprised. “So soon?” “Well, you did save my life.” She chuckled softly, “Plus, the project really does have great potential.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Winona being introduced by Yvon to several investors. “Winona is really lucky,” Tina said, her voice lowering as she leaned in just slightly. Her eyes locked onto mine—bold, admiring, and unmistakably suggestive. “To have a man like you—talented, loyal… and so incredibly perfect.” I felt the weight of her gaze, intense enough to make my throat tighten. I looked away, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. There was no point in telling her the land was my last gift to Winona. Yvon stepped forward. “What’s got you and Tina so happy?” he asked with a grin. Winona’s gaze flickered between Tina and me, her red lips pressing into a thin line. “I was praising Mr. Xander’s piano talents,” Tina said with a smile. “He’s invited to support me at my promotion ceremony tomorrow.” Yvon sighed dramatically, “Evan’s talent? Sure, he’s got plenty of that — just a shame it can’t make any fortune.”He cast a glance at Winona, “Good thing someone’s willing to keep him fed.” The banquet hall fell silent for a few seconds. Winona stared at her champagne flute, saying nothing. Tina raised an eyebrow and laughed lightly, “The value of one Chopin piece he plays could buy you ten hospitals.” Yvon’s face darkened immediately. Winona suddenly looked up, a flicker of emotion I couldn’t read flashing in her eyes. “Excuse me.” I set down my glass and turned away. I’d seen this act too many times over the past seven years—Yvon publicly belittling me, Winona silently allowing it, and the same old crowd laughing at the pianist’s ‘useless talent.’ The cold wind on the terrace blew away some of the alcohol’s haze. I heard the sound of heels behind me. Thinking it was Winona, I turned — but it was Tina. “Need any help?” She offered me a cigarette. I shook my head. “Only if you can give me a new identity,” I joked half-seriously. Tina’s blue eyes deepened under the moonlight. “Serious?” I froze, realizing this might be my chance. “After tomorrow’s recital… I might need to vanish for a while.” She didn’t ask why, only nodded, “Give me 24 hours.” A joyful scream suddenly burst from the banquet hall. Through the glass doors, I saw Winona almost throw herself into Yvon’s arms, visibly moved, while Yvonne waved exaggeratedly to show that it was nothing. “Mr. Xander?” Tina looked at my pale face with concern. “I’m fine.” I forced a smile. “I need to prepare for tomorrow’s recital. Excuse me.” I made my escape, heading straight for the outdoor parking lot. Cold rain lashed the car roof as I slipped into it. Winona seemed displeased and followed me into the car. The moment the door clicked shut, she lunged at me—pressing me against the driver’s seat with a fierce kiss. Her fingers slid to the back of my neck, tracing the small mole there like she was reclaiming a brand. Her eyes narrowed, a glint of anger flashing beneath their half-lowered lids. “Evan Xander, you’ll only ever belong to me.” She provocatively unbuckled my belt and straddled me, about to kiss me again, when her phone vibrated. A message popped up. I glanced at the number — Yvon’s. “I forgot I still have clients to entertain…” she said smoothly, flawless in her act. I stared at her perfectly composed face, every inch a performance — then sank my teeth into her collarbone with sudden fury. Emotions like a taut string about to snap. I grabbed her neck from behind, flipped her roughly onto the leather seat. Her eyes widened, no time to resist before I crushed her with a violent kiss. It wasn’t a kiss—it was a devouring. She whimpered and struggled, but I only pressed harder, knuckles turning red as I clenched. My knee pried her legs apart firmly. I plunged in, deep and unrelenting, again and again—piercing, crushing, like I was breaking her lies with every thrust. Pain furrowed her brows, yet she gasped and gave in, hips lifted instinctively, trembling with every thrust. Outside, cold rain drummed on the car window, but inside, a burning burial raged. Before the final climax, I whispered into her ear: “This is the last time.” She paused, seemingly not understanding. Then her purse lit up. I froze, instantly pulling away and buckling my belt. I didn’t look at her again. It took a while for Winona to come back to herself. She parted her lips to ask something—then her phone rang again. She paused, then rasped, “I have to get back to the banquet.” And with that, she adjusted her gown and left. **** At three a.m., Beverly Hills was eerily silent. I stood motionless in the center of the bedroom. My suitcase lay open on the bed, packed with only essentials: passport, cash, and that original Chopin score. My phone lit up — a message from Winona: “Yvon helped me secure that land. I have to entertain a few government officials tonight. Don’t wait up.” My fingers hovered over the screen for a long time, but I didn’t reply. Yvon had sunk to shameless depths—I sneered, but wasn’t surprised. After all, he’d impersonated me more than once. Outside, Los Angeles still glittered—a sleepless city that never dims for anyone’s departure. I picked up the photo on the nightstand: Winona, leaning on my shoulder during our Maldives honeymoon, smiling as if nothing would ever change. “It was all a show from the start…” I tossed the photo into the trash and turned to the safe behind the wardrobe. Inside lay my final card — a share certificate for 3% of Xander Pharmaceuticals, quietly transferred to me by my father on my twentieth birthday. Even Yvon never knew it existed. Just as I was zipping up my suitcase, my phone buzzed. A message from Yvon — a photo of Winona, kneeling by his bed in nothing but a shirt, holding a bowl of sobering soup. [Thanks for training Winona so well, big brother.] And another line of text, [By the way, check the safe in her study. Surprise awaits.] I went straight to the study. The safe was hidden behind an original Monet. What was the code? Our wedding date? No. Yvon’s birthday? I tried—and it opened immediately. Inside, among some documents, lay a velvet box. Opening it revealed a pair of platinum rings glittering under the light — similar in style to mine and Winona’s wedding bands but engraved inside with “W&I 4ever.” My phone started vibrating relentlessly. Yvon’s texts came flooding in like snowflakes: [Did you know Winona’s always loved me?] [Her marriage to you was just to stop you from stealing my inheritance!] [She said the only way she could fuck you was by imagining you were me.] [She was too excited on my bed tonight, so she’s a bit sleepless. I gave her medicine. Tomorrow, during your recital, she’ll probably still be in my bed. She won’t even show up. Evan Xander, everything that belongs to you will become mine — including Winona.] I slammed my phone against the wall, shards scattering. The cracked screen reflected my twisted face… I took a deep breath. Then another. Anger would ruin the carefully laid plans. As the first morning light poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, my heart was cold again — sharp as a surgeon’s blade. I took out the SIM card, snapped the phone in two, and threw the pieces into the trash.
The sound of the suitcase snapping shut echoed sharply in the silence. I left the signed divorce papers under Winona’s favorite champagne glass, pressing them down. In the dim light before dawn, I drove toward the Burbank Concert Hall. There was still fog ahead, but it didn’t matter. I’ve always made it through to the morning. The concert hall lights glowed like a haze through the rainy night. “Are you sure about this?” Tina asked over the phone. “Faking your death is a felony.” I glanced at the mannequin in the dressing room, dressed identically in my performance suit. “Worse than pretending to love someone for seven years?” I replied. Winona’s betrayal and Yvon’s mocking laughter last night still echoed in my mind. Backstage was deserted. It took me two hours to set everything up—the timed ignition device, scattered traces of life in the dressing room. Everything had to be perfect, just like every note I’ve ever played. By noon, the staff had begun to arrive. I lay backstage, feigning rest, while carefully tracking everyone’s movements—the stage manager, lighting crew, security—memorizing every location to ensure no one would be hurt in the fire. Tina had planted her people with the fire and police departments. Once the fire broke out, the “corpse” would be reduced to something beyond recognition. “Mr. Xander, you look pale,” the young makeup artist said, concern in her eyes. “Just nerves,” I forced a smile. “Today’s program is… demanding.” Especially the last piece: Funeral March. A requiem for dead love, dead trust, and the soon-to-be-dead Evan Xander. By 6 p.m., the audience began to file in. I stood backstage, peeking through a gap in the curtain at the growing crowd. At precisely 7 o’clock, the performance was set to begin. “Five minutes, Mr. Xander,” the stage manager whispered. I nodded, adjusting the platinum tie clip Winona gave me three days ago—the anniversary gift. Ironically, it would be the key identifier on my “body.” “Mr. Xander? It’s time.” The stagehand’s voice pulled me back. I took a deep breath and stepped onto the stage. All 700 seats were filled under the glow of the spotlight. Bow. Sit. The moment my fingers touched the keys, the world fell silent. They danced across the keyboard while my soul floated above it all, watching the farewell like a ghost. Moonlight Sonata mourned, Revolutionary Etude raged, Mariage d’Amour wept—each one telling a chapter of my life. Before the final piece, I glanced into the audience. In the VIP section, Tina sat alone, nodding slightly, her blue eyes shining with unease under the dim light. “The next piece is Chopin’s Funeral March,” I said into the mic, my voice echoing through the hall. “Dedicated to all that once was beautiful… and is no more.” The first note fell. A soft click came from inside the piano. The timer had started. In three minutes, the flames would rise. The music surged like a tide, each note peeling back my wounds, raw and bleeding. By the second movement, I smelled smoke. People began to shift, uneasy—but the music still held them captive. Third movement. A thread of smoke rose from beneath the piano. —Time to go. “Fire!” someone finally screamed. Chaos erupted instantly. I kept playing until the flames licked the piano lid. Fire shot up from the stage like a monster unchained. “Mr. Xander! Get out!” a stagehand grabbed my arm. Tina stood still. Our eyes met. She gave the faintest nod. “My sheet music!” I shouted, feigning panic. “It’s still in there!” I broke free and ran back into the flames. I darted backstage through the smoke and pressed the platinum tie clip into the mannequin’s plastic finger joints. Then I slipped out the side exit—just as planned. Tina’s car was already waiting. Behind me, the dome of the concert hall began to collapse, firelight swallowing the LA’s skyline. A black sedan pulled up to the alley on cue. I slid into the backseat. The driver said nothing, just handed me an envelope. A new passport. New name: Victor Ducrest. Swiss-American. “To the airport,” I rasped. “Don’t look back.” As we drove off, the fire truck sirens wailed through the city. I rolled down the window and tossed my phone into a passing garbage truck. Let it all turn to ash. At Yvon’s villa, Winona slept deeply, unaware of it all. Calls from the Lowell family’s butler kept lighting up her screen. She grunted and silenced them in her sleep. After a dozen attempts, she finally stirred, sensing something was wrong. “What is it?” “Miss… Mr. Xander—he… the piano caught fire during the concert… He was burned alive!” “We tried everything, but… it was too late.”
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