Wish you were mine

Prologue

PENELOPE

Sometimes, the person who strives to keep everyone happy is the loneliest soul of all. I know this all too well, because I've been that person. I've always been the one to make sacrifices, to let go of my own desires for the sake of others' happiness. And yet, despite it all, I have no regrets.

Two years of my life slipped away, spent in solitude, severed from the warmth of my family. The connection with my twin sister-a bond so deep, it had once felt unbreakable-was reduced to a memory. I missed them all terribly, but I knew that returning was not an option. How could I destroy the happiness she had found? I couldn't be that selfish. So, I chose to vanish, to run as far away as possible.

I clawed my way up from the depths of despair, each step forward drenched in sweat and stained with tears. Sleepless nights became my routine, with sobs echoing through the hollow chambers of my heart until there were no more tears left to shed.

The world sees me now, as a figure of ethereal beauty, my aura intoxicating like the sweetest nectar on the petals of a Juliet rose-stunning, beyond comparison, yet tragically out of reach. Only a king could ever deserve to touch such a rare and precious jewel. But fate is cruel, for even this jewel has been rejected by the king.

My head leaned back against the cool leather of the pristine seat in my black Mercedes-a car that was merely one of many in my collection, each a symbol of the empire I built from my own pain. I stared out the window, watching as a sea of paparazzi swarmed like vultures, their cameras flashing, their voices a distant hum. My bodyguards formed a protective barrier around the car, their presence a necessary shield from the outside world.

"Drive," I instructed the chauffeur, my voice steady, betraying nothing of the fatigue that weighed heavily on me. I needed to get home. The only thing I craved now was the solace of my bed, the one place where I could let the facade slip, if only for a few hours.

California. It's been two years since I last set foot here. The world hasn't changed much, but I have. The sweet, innocent girl I once was has transformed into a woman-gorgeous, confident, unyielding. I've sculpted myself into someone I can finally be proud of, a reflection of the trials I've overcome.

As the car slowed to a stop, I was pulled from the depths of my reverie. I hadn't even noticed the passage of time, so lost was I in the labyrinth of my thoughts. But now, I was here, at the threshold of yet another memory. This place holds so many-some that warm my heart, and others that I would rather forget.

But that's the thing about memories-they never truly leave you. They linger, shaping you into who you are, for better or for worse.

The driver opened the door, and I stepped out, my heels clicking against the smooth stone driveway as I found myself standing before a stunning mansion-a place that had once been home, now almost surreal in its grandeur.

Finally, I am back home.

The mansion was a masterpiece of luxury, sprawling with ten bedrooms, a 70,000-gallon infinity pool complete with a swim-up bar, an underground ballroom fit for royalty, and a home theater that could rival any cinema. As I stood there, I took in the breathtaking surroundings-the perfectly manicured garden, the mountainside view that stretched endlessly, the fountains that danced gracefully in the fading light, and, of course, the mansion itself. Everything was just as I remembered, and yet it felt like I was seeing it for the first time.

I decided to linger outside for a while, savoring the things I had missed over the years. My feet led me to the garden, which seamlessly blended with the poolside area. I sank into the plush cushions of a white poolside table, letting my eyes wander across the pristine waters of the swimming pool, its surface shimmering like liquid glass under the setting sun. Nothing has changed. My gaze drifted towards the beautiful greenhouse, nestled at the edge of the garden.

My father's love for nature had been the inspiration behind the greenhouse, a place where he would sip his morning tea while reading the newspaper, surrounded by the greenery he cherished. The memories of those quiet mornings, his contented smile as he absorbed the tranquility of this sanctuary, tugged at my heart.

After a while, I gathered the courage to enter the house. The moment I crossed the threshold, I was enveloped by the familiar warmth of the mansion's interiors. The intricate and majestic designs, an elegant fusion of Roman and Greek styles, greeted me with their timeless beauty. Every corner, every detail, whispered of a history rich with moments that had shaped who I am today.

As I wandered through the halls, I heard the distant murmur of voices coming from the living room. Curiosity drew me forward, and I followed the sound, my footsteps soft against the polished marble floors. When I reached the living room, I froze in my tracks.

There, seated comfortably on the sofa, was a group of familiar faces, engaged in conversation. But it was one face in particular that made every muscle in my body tense, my heart lurching painfully in my chest. The sight of him-Sean Anderson-sitting with my father, his easy smile fading the instant his dark eyes met mine, sent a wave of emotions crashing over me.

I had convinced myself I was ready to face him, that the wounds had healed, that I had moved on. But in that moment, I realized how wrong I had been. Moving on was far more complicated than simply walking away. I had run from my problems, but now, it was time to confront them.

Tears burned in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I would not cry-not in front of him. The memories we shared, the pain he caused, they were all still there, festering like an old wound that had never truly healed.

I wish I could forget you, Sean Anderson. But you're that part of my memory that I can't erase, no matter how hard I try.

I hate you, Sean Anderson, and I will continue hating you until my last breath.

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