Framed By Family, Reborn By Love

My family framed me for corporate espionage, and my uncle told me I was dead to them. So I obliged. I faked my own death and built a new life as Elia Parker, a successful architect married to a tech mogul.

But after five years, my past refused to stay buried. My cousin found me at my own grave and dragged me to a public event, parading me around like a ghost.

My uncle, who left me to rot in a hospital, feigned shock.

My aunt shrieked that I was a monster for faking my death.

Then she lunged, her nails raking across my cheek and drawing blood.

"You ungrateful bitch!" she screamed.

As I stood there bleeding, my so-called family just watched, not one of them moving to help. It was the same cold indifference that had destroyed me five years ago.

Just as I was about to break, a voice cut through the chaos, quiet but radiating power. "Is everything alright here, Elia?"

It was my husband, Javier Bates. And the look on his face told me their world was about to burn.

Chapter 1

Jillian Henry died on a Tuesday. The day was gray and cold, much like the stone that now bore her name. I stood before it, the damp earth clinging to my Italian leather boots, a stranger looking at her own obituary. The name etched into the granite-Jillian Henry-felt like a relic from another lifetime, a ghost I had long since buried.

"Jillian Henry. Beloved Daughter. Cherished Friend." The words were a mockery.

They were lies, every single one of them. The only truth on this polished slab was the date of death: five years ago. Five years since I ceased to be Jillian. Five years since Elia Parker was born.

A shiver, cold and unwelcome, stole down my spine. It wasn't from the November chill, but from the raw, exposed nerve of a past I thought I had perfectly cauterized. This stone, this meticulously carved lie, was a monument to their deceit, not my memory.

I ran a gloved finger over the cold inscription. The stone was newer than most, its edges still sharp, its surface glistening with fresh rain. Too new for someone supposedly dead for half a decade. It screamed of an afterthought, a convenient narrative for a story they wanted to sell.

A faded silk ribbon, once vibrant red, was tied to the corner of the headstone. It was mine. A ribbon from my high school graduation, given to me by my mother. It was brittle, frayed, but unmistakable. The sight of it made my stomach churn.

A shuffling sound broke the quiet. An old man, the cemetery caretaker, rounded a row of ancient oaks, his breath pluming in the frigid air. He paused, his gaze snagging on me, then on the headstone. His eyes widened, a flicker of fear crossing his weathered face.

"My goodness," he mumbled, his voice raspy. "You look just like her. A spitting image. Though