Chapter 1My daughter pukes on anything strawberry-flavored. Always has.
But the girl in front of me? Just finished an entire tub.
"Mom? You okay?" Same tone. Same little mole. Same burn scar.
Looks just like her.
But something inside me was screaming: This is not my daughter.
I went to the police station. Cops didn't believe me. "People change."
Fine. I'll handle it myself.
Back home. Heard whispering in the hallway. My future son-in-law's voice. "Worst case? We drug her. Make her mute."
Then a knock. "Mom. Tea. Settle your stomach."
I drank it.
Soon as they leave? Puke it all up.
Wedding day, they stood there soaking up everyone's congratulations.
The preacher announced the exchange of rings.
SLAP. I grinned.
"Hold on. Bitch, it's my turn."
--
The day before my daughter's wedding, I made the drive in from my hometown.
Pushed open the door—and there she was. Sitting on the couch, working her way through a tub of strawberry ice cream like it was the best thing she'd ever tasted.
My future son-in-law looked up with a grin. "Mom! You made it."
My smile froze on my face.
Because here's what nobody else knew:
My daughter loved strawberries. Fresh ones, anyway.
But strawberry-flavored stuff? Her body rejected it. Every time. She couldn't even choke down a slice of strawberry cake without gagging.
So watching her polish off an entire tub of strawberry ice cream—without so much as a wince?
Yeah.
Was this really my daughter?
...
My daughter Elara Ashford?
Total strawberry freak since she was little.
But here's the weird part—as obsessed as she was with fresh strawberries, anything strawberry-flavored made her physically sick.
Like, instant nausea. Every time.
I learned that the hard way once. Grabbed a slice of strawberry cake without thinking.
She took one bite. And then she spent the next hour hunched over the toilet, throwing up everything she'd eaten that day.
After that? Strawberry-flavored stuff was straight-up banned in our house.
When she left for college out of state, she met Callum Blackwood. Dated him for three years. Got engaged.
And now, the night before the wedding, I made the drive in from my hometown.
Pushed open the door—and froze.
There she was. My daughter. The one who couldn't even smell artificial strawberry without gagging.
Sitting on the couch with a nearly empty tub of strawberry ice cream in her lap.
Spoon in hand. Eyes half-shut in pure bliss.
Not a trace of discomfort. Not one.
My stomach dropped.
Elara can't eat strawberry-flavored food.
I swallowed hard and said lightly, "Elara, honey... it's barely spring. All that ice cream's gonna wreck your stomach."
She didn't even look up. Just scooped another massive spoonful and shoved it in her mouth.
"Mom, relax. I've been craving this all week. A little won't kill me."
That tone—soft, teasing, a little pouty—it was exactly how Elara talked when she wanted me to drop something.
And normally? It worked. I'd cave every time.
But not today.
Today, I froze.
Because Elara wasn't stupid. She knew what I was really asking.
And more than that—there was no way in hell someone with a literal gag reflex to strawberry flavoring could down an entire tub of ice cream like it was nothing.
I stared at her face.
There was a small brown mole just under her left eye. Elara had one in the exact same spot.
She held the tub in her right hand, scooped with her left. Just like Elara always did.
But something still felt... off.
Maybe she noticed I'd gone quiet, because Callum stepped in with an easy smile.
"Diana, don't worry—I've got an eye on her. She won't overdo it."
"You've been traveling all day, right? You must be starving. Dinner's ready. Let's eat."
I swallowed again and nodded.
A minute later, the table was loaded.
Honey-glazed ribs. Creamy mushroom soup. Pan-seared salmon. Garlic butter shrimp.
Every single dish was something I loved.
You'd have to know me pretty damn well to get all that right.
I let out a breath.
Okay. Maybe I'm just being paranoid.
It had been over ten years since that strawberry cake incident. Maybe she'd outgrown it.
Hell, she'd even mentioned once, early in her relationship with Callum, that he'd bought her some strawberry dessert and she forced herself to eat it even though it made her queasy.
If an allergy could be cured, a little stomach sensitivity's probably no big deal, right?
Callum was already pulling out a chair for me, all smiles.
Elara leaned over, voice warm and familiar. "Mom, I know you hate the texture of chopped onions, so I used onion powder in the mushroom soup instead. Try it—let me know what you think."
I dipped my spoon in and took a sip.
Rich. Earthy. Creamy. A hint of nutmeg to balance it all out.
Perfect.
But my heart sank like a stone.
No.
This isn't right.
This isn't Elara!
Chapter 2
My face went white. My whole body started shaking—I couldn't stop it.
She noticed. Her brow furrowed. "Mom? You okay? Is the food not good?"
I shook my head, forcing my voice to stay steady. "No, no—it's great. You haven't lost your touch."
I paused. "I'm just...thinking about how tomorrow you'll be married. It's hitting me, you know?"
Callum immediately jumped in, hand over his heart. "Diana, I swear—I'll take care of her. For the rest of my life. You can trust me with her."
"Callum! Oh my God—" She went red, smacking his arm.
Watching the two of them together—so close, so easy with each other—I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt.
Stay calm. Don't let them see.
That mushroom soup. Silky. Rich. Almost a perfect copy of the way I made it.
But the nutmeg gave it away.
She'd sprinkled it on after taking the pot off the heat.
Elara knew I hated when spices were too strong. She always added the nutmeg two minutes before finishing, so it could melt into the broth.
Two minutes. That's all it took.
And the taste was completely different.
But she didn't notice.
She slid the plate of honey-glazed ribs closer to me, then started going on about stuff from when she was a kid.
When she was seven, she'd run off to a friend's house without telling me. I was out of my mind with worry for hours. When she finally came home, I grounded her for a whole week. No TV, no toys, nothing. She was so mad at me.
At ten, she tried to help me in the kitchen. Insisted on carrying a pot of soup. Spilled it all over herself. The burn left a scar on her arm.
She rolled up her sleeve, pointing at the old mark with a grin. "I was such a little terror back then."
"Mom, seriously—you put up with so much."
When she said "Mom," her voice lilted up at the end. Sweet. Coaxing.
I forced a smile and didn't say anything.
She had the whole act down.
But a mother knows her daughter.
And I was more certain than ever—this wasn't my Elara.
I glanced over at Callum without even thinking.
When she talked, his eyes softened. He looked at her like she hung the moon.
They'd been together for three years. If something was off about her, he should've been the first to notice.
But he sat there, completely at ease. Like nothing was wrong.
My stomach turned.
My gut told me one thing:
Whatever happened to Elara—it wasn't simple.
After dinner, I made an excuse about taking out the trash and went straight to the police station.
I told them everything.
The officer stared at me like I'd grown a second head.
"So... because your daughter ate strawberry ice cream and put nutmeg in the soup after cooking it... you think she's been replaced?"
I nodded quickly. "Yes! She's never been able to eat strawberry-flavored food. It makes her sick. But now she's fine."
"Officer, please—something's happened to her. You have to help me find her!"
He frowned. "Ma'am, I want to help you. But we need evidence. People change. Maybe she grew out of it."
"And we already checked the footage. Nothing unusual. She came home, she left for the concert, she came back. It all lines up."
"She posted a video yesterday—talking about the wedding. Got, like, hundreds of thousands of likes."
"Everything points to the person at that apartment being your daughter, Elara Ashford."
"No." My voice cracked. "She's not Elara. I would know!"
The officer sighed. His patience was wearing thin. "Ma'am, if you keep insisting without any real proof, this counts as filing a false report."
False report.
I stood there, frozen.
My throat closed up.
I knew she wasn't Elara.
But who the hell would believe me?
I walked out of the office, not really sure where I was going. Found a bench in a park nearby and sat down. Eyes burning, but the tears wouldn't come.
Am I losing it?
Is the cop right? Do people just... change?
My hand drifted into my coat pocket. My fingers brushed something cold.
My cross necklace. I must've taken it off earlier without thinking.
It was an old habit in our family. When you didn't know what to do, you held onto it. You prayed.
I closed my eyes. Pressed the cross to my forehead.
Please, I thought. Tell me I'm not crazy.
A gust of wind hit me from behind.
I shivered.
And then—finally—the tears came.
I wasn't imagining it.
I wasn't wrong.
My Elara was in danger.
And I was the only one who knew.
Chapter 3
I stared at the cross in my hand. My heart started pounding.
That prayer wasn't just in my head.
Elara was missing. Had been for who knows how long.
And the only way to get the cops to actually do something? I needed proof.
I closed my eyes. Tried to think back—had she done anything off lately?
Three days ago, she'd called me, all hyped up because she scored tickets to a Sabrina Carpenter concert. Even posted a video from the show—singing along, phone in the air, the whole thing.
The voice sounded like her.
But the second I saw the video, I knew. That wasn't Elara.
Then it hit me.
If the person pretending to be my daughter wasn't actually her—then she had to have slipped up somewhere.
I bolted home instantly.
When I got there, the apartment was dead quiet. No one around.
I didn't stop to think about it—just went straight to the bedroom and grabbed the tablet.
It was an old one Elara had passed down to me. I barely used it, so her accounts were still logged in. Everything synced automatically.
I opened her social media.
And there it was.
April 3rd. 9 PM. A video of Elara in the back of a cab.
Same night. Same time. Another post—live from the concert. Singing. Crowd cheering.
She couldn't have been in two places at once. That meant the real Elara never went to that concert.
Whoever this imposter was—she got hold of Elara's phone after the show. Deleted the cab video. Posted fake content to make it look like she'd been there the whole time.
And just like that, she took over my daughter's life.
My stomach dropped.
Why? Why would she do this?
And if she'd replaced Elara—
Where the hell is my daughter?
Is she even still alive?
My hands shook. The tablet slipped from my grip and clattered onto the floor.
I forced myself to breathe.
No. Elara's smart. She wouldn't just… disappear. Not like that.
Her dad and I split when she was little. I never remarried. Poured everything I had into raising her. We weren't just mother and daughter—we were close. Like sisters. We had secrets no one else knew.
If she'd sensed something was wrong, she would've left me a clue. I was sure of it.
I played that cab video over and over. Squinting at every frame. Looking for something.
Then I saw it.
A license plate. Just for a second.
I grabbed my phone and called the rideshare company's customer service. Got transferred three times before I finally got the driver's number.
I dialed.
"Hi—sorry to bother you. On April 3rd, around 9 PM, did you pick up a passenger named Elara Ashford?"
Silence.
Then, cautious: "Don't know. Can't say. If that's all, I'm gonna hang up—"
"Wait! Please don't hang up!"
I was practically yelling.
"Elara's my daughter. She's missing. That video she took in your car—it's the only proof I have. Please. I'm begging you."
He let out a long sigh.
"Hold on."
About half a minute later, his voice came back—softer this time.
"Checked the logs. Yeah. Around that time, I had a passenger. Last name Ashford."
"She was crying. Really hard. Looked like a bad breakup or something."
My blood ran cold.
Callum.
He had to be involved.
I cut in, voice shaking. "Do you remember where you dropped her off?"
"Willow Creek."
I froze.
Willow Creek.
That was this apartment. The one I'd bought for her. Her wedding home.
If she'd come back here that night—
Then who the hell was at that concert?
Before I could process any of it, I heard a voice behind me.
Familiar. Sweet.
"Mom? Who are you talking to?"
