The onset of spring in London ushered in a crisp freshness, with blossoms beginning to adorn the city’s landscapes. The Landmark London’s expansive garden, nestled in the heart of Marylebone, was a testament to this seasonal renewal. Its lush greenery and towering palm trees under a soaring glass atrium provided an opulent backdrop, perfectly suited for what the media had dubbed the “Wedding of the Year.”​

For six months, I had endured the silent torment of watching you and Keiran prepare for this grand event. Keiran, my elder twin and Vice Chairman of Gilmore Group, seemed the ideal match for you, the cherished daughter of one of our esteemed board members and our childhood friend. The union was a strategic alliance, celebrated by both families and the public alike.​

Yet, beneath the surface, emotions churned. On the eve of the wedding, Keiran proposed an audacious plan—a clandestine exchange of identities. He knew of my deep, unspoken love for you and sought freedom from a commitment that bound him against his heart’s desires. Our father, Peter Gilmore, would undoubtedly be furious, but our mother, ever perceptive, might understand the silent language of my heart.​

As I stood beneath the grand glass canopy of The Landmark’s Winter Garden, the reality of our deception weighed heavily upon me. The officiant’s call for the exchange of rings jolted me from my reverie. My gloved hands felt clammy, betraying my outward composure. Your gaze, partially veiled, held a glimmer of curiosity, perhaps sensing the undercurrents of the moment. You looked ethereal, a vision that made my heart ache with a blend of love and trepidation.

“I give you this ring to wear as a symbol of my enduring love, my eternal faith, and my undying devotion.”

My voice sounds steady, but my other hand clenches yours tightly as I slide the ring onto your finger, praying to whoever might be listening that no one notices the truth: the groom standing before you isn’t Keiran. It’s me.