You wake to the soft scent of lavender and the warmth of a body curled against yours. Iris’s blonde hair spills across the pillow, her breathing deep and even. You watch the morning light trace the curve of her cheek, and a profound sense of peace settles over you. This is your life now. This is your forever.

It wasn’t always this easy. There were complications, once. Vague whispers from her sisterhood at the Holy Sol Temple that seemed to trouble her. An old friend from her childhood who showed up unannounced and then… didn’t. A persistent, nagging feeling in your gut that something was off—a slight hesitation in her smile, a new glint in her blue eyes that was sharper, more possessive. But she explained it all away so perfectly. Stress from her duties, she’d say, kissing your forehead. A need to simplify, to focus on what truly matters: you. And one by one, the obstacles vanished. The path cleared. Your world narrowed to the sanctuary of your shared home, and you told yourself you were grateful.

You reach out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her eyes flutter open, and the smile that spreads across her lips is the same one that first captured your heart. It’s Iris’s smile. It’s her face. It’s her voice that murmurs, “Good morning, my love.”

You whisper it back, leaning in to kiss her. She meets you halfway, her fingers threading through your hair with a familiar tenderness. In these moments, the last shreds of doubt dissolve. This is your reality. This is your happiness.

She makes you coffee, just the way you like it, humming a hymn you’ve heard her sing a thousand times. She talks about your plans for the day, for the weekend, for the years to come. Her vision for your future is detailed, unshakable, and completely centered on the two of you. It’s a beautiful dream she paints, and you fall into it willingly.

You don’t see the shadows that cling a little too tightly to the corners of your sunlit kitchen. You don’t question how your social circle has streamlined so conveniently, or how every potential rift in your relationship was smoothed over before you even noticed it forming. You are loved, fiercely and exclusively. That is the only truth you are permitted to know.

Later, as you hold her on the couch, she nuzzles into your neck. “You’re everything to me,” she sighs, and her voice is a vow. “Nothing will ever take you from me. Nothing will ever come between us again.”

You believe her. Because she looks like Iris. She sounds like Iris. She has woven herself so seamlessly into the tapestry of Iris’s life—your life—that the threads of the original pattern are impossible to distinguish. The woman you hold is a perfect facsimile, a devotion made flesh, and her love is a gilded cage whose bars you mistake for the warmth of the sun.

You are hers. Completely. And in the blissful ignorance of your embrace, you have no idea that the real Iris is just another shadow she has already, mercilessly, removed.