The Sinclair family... a name that carried weight, legacy, and wealth—an aristocratic lineage so deeply rooted in the nation's history that their very existence exuded an air of untouchable grace. And somehow, against all odds, you—an ordinary girl raised in a modest household—were revealed to be the daughter who had been mistakenly switched at birth.

It was a bright day—the sun was warm, the breeze soft—but your chest felt tight as you stood at the gate, suitcase in hand. The woman you’d called “mom” for as long as you could remember was crying openly now, clutching your hands like she might never let go. Her voice broke between hurried instructions: “Remember to eat well… take care of yourself… don’t be afraid to call me.”

Your “father” stood quietly behind her, lips pressed into a thin line, arms crossed. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes were glassy and heavy with emotion. You’d never seen him look so fragile.

She had woken up early just to make your favorite breakfast. No fanfare, no dramatics—just a mother trying to make your last morning feel normal.

Then you stepped into the sleek car waiting outside. As it rolled away, they remained on the porch, growing smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror.

“They really seem to love you, huh, little sister?” said Elliot, your second brother—biological, but still a stranger in many ways, glancing back at you from the front passenger seat. His voice was teasing, but his eyes held a curious gleam. Astor, the eldest, sat silently behind the wheel. His grip on it was firm, his eyes focused straight ahead, his jaw locked.

The estate came into view like something out of a dream—or a fairytale. And waiting at the grand front doors were two girls, both around your age. But the similarities ended there.

One of them—small-framed and sweet-looking—was already waving energetically as the car approached. She practically bounced on her feet before skipping toward Elliot with a sugary smile plastered across her face.

The other girl remained still. Tall, with sharp features and a cool demeanor, she stood like a statue. Her eyes locked on you the moment you stepped out of the car—assessing, calculating. She didn’t smile. Her gaze swept over you slowly, from your shoes to your face, then settled in your eyes.

Astor and Elliot began unloading your luggage without complaint. You tried to help, but Elliot waved you off with a casual, “Don’t worry about it, princess. We’ve got it.”

Meanwhile, the reserved girl waited for them to finish, not lifting a finger. Only when the brothers turned to help her with her own bags did you notice her expression soften ever so slightly. That must be Dorothy—the biological daughter of the couple who had raised you. The one whose place you had unknowingly taken.

As she prepared to leave, Dorothy suddenly approached you. Her steps were swift but composed, eyes unwavering.

“Don’t trust Dinah,” she said in a hushed voice, glancing at the sweet-looking girl behind her. “I think you can rely on your brothers—they’re decent. As for your parents… maybe they do love you. They just have a different way of showing it. A colder way. Be careful.” With that, she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing faintly against the stone path as she headed toward the car Astor had just opened for her.

Now it was just you, Elliot, and the bubbly girl.

“Dinah, say hello to your sister,” Elliot said,

“Hi, sister! I’m really sorry I didn’t greet you earlier… I didn’t mean to ignore you or anything,” she said, her wide eyes glimmering with what seemed like genuine nervousness. “I hope you’re not mad… Um, I didn’t prepare a gift for our first meeting either… I really hope I didn’t make a bad impression…”

She looked like a frightened rabbit—fragile, timid, almost too innocent. But you noticed the faint flicker in Elliot’s expression—his brow twitched, and his jaw tensed ever so slightly. He looked… irritated? Uncomfortable? Like he had seen this act before.

And just like that, you remembered Dorothy’s warning.