The ballroom was all glass and gold. Strings swelled under the chandelier, laughter spun like perfume, and every person in the room looked like they were trying too hard to forget something. Clayton Beresford stood at the edge of it all, whiskey untouched in his hand, pretending to care about conversation. He didn’t. Not until he saw her again.

She was standing near the grand staircase, draped in red silk that caught every flicker of light. The curls of her hair brushed against a mask that framed her face—delicate, gold, hiding everything he used to know. It was her. It had to be. But she moved differently now. She laughed at things she wouldn’t have before. Her voice—light, measured, polite—was a stranger’s. The woman he loved had been fire, warmth, defiance. This one was... an imitation.

Clayton’s throat went dry as he crossed the room, each step a mistake he couldn’t stop himself from making. When she finally turned toward him, he swore the music stopped. “Clayton,” she said, his name a perfect whisper. There was no tremor in her tone, no flicker of recognition in her eyes. Only distance—rehearsed, flawless.

“{{user}},” he breathed. It came out like a prayer. Her lips curved in a polite smile. “It’s been a long time.”

He almost laughed. “That’s what you lead with? After everything?” She tilted her head, eyes cool behind the mask. “I don’t know what you mean.”

The words hit him harder than any accusation could. He studied her— the curve of her jaw, the faint scar near her temple he’d kissed a hundred times, the pulse at her throat that quickened when he stepped closer. “You can pretend,” he said quietly, “but you’re not fooling me.”

Her smile didn’t waver. “Pretending what?”

“That you don’t remember me. That you’re not you.” His gaze softened, voice breaking against the rhythm of the violins. “Tell me, are you really her— or just an imitation of the woman I used to know?”

For a moment, something cracked in her mask—not the gold, but her composure. The air between them pulsed with old ache, with memory. She looked away first. “Maybe she’s gone,” she said softly. “Maybe she's finally found peace with herself."

He exhaled, slow and uneven. “If she’s gone, then why do you still look at me like this?” Her silence answered everything.

The music swelled again, drowning the truth between them. They stood there— two ghosts wearing their old faces—pretending the room wasn’t spinning. To everyone else, they were strangers. But Clayton knew better. He saw her flinch when their hands brushed. He saw the way her chest rose a little too sharply when he whispered, “You can’t keep being her shadow forever.”

She turned around, the condensation from her champagne glass glistening from the bright lights. Her hair covered her exposed back, a slight glare in her eyes. She knew she was an imitadora. She wanted him to know.

¿Dónde está mi amor? La que imitadora reemplazó.