Chapter 2

Julian, my husband, messaged me, asking if I'd arrived at the Maxwell estate. He also sent over some information about the family.

Along with several pictures of designer handbags.

He asked which ones I didn't like, so he wouldn't bring those back as gifts from his trip.

Neither of us was taking this "reunion" very seriously.

Of course, if this had happened when I was in my early twenties, I probably would have been more emotionally volatile.

But I was 45. My adoptive parents raised me from infancy until their deaths, never waiting for anyone to claim me.

I already fully belonged to one family and had built my own.

The pursuit of my original family had dwindled in importance over the years.

We arrived at the Maxwell family mansion.

My two daughters and I got out of the car. Mr. Jenkins, the family's butler, came to greet us.

He looked at me with a hint of surprise but didn't say much.

"Miss Seraphina, please allow me to show you the way."

The way he addressed me was… telling.

Clearly, someone else had been called "Miss Eleanor" for over forty years, making me the "Miss Seraphina."

Even more intriguing, the butler led us not to the main hall, but to what appeared to be a side parlor in the mansion.

Before we even got close, we heard voices.

"I have no idea why Dad and Mom insisted on bringing her and those mutts back. She's been out there for decades; who knows what she's become, what kind of man she married, or what kind of no-good degenerates her kids are?"

"You're the only sister I need, Eleanor. If this gets out, who knows what people will say about the Maxwells…"

Mr. Jenkins cleared his throat.

The conversation inside abruptly stopped.

I was ushered forward, officially meeting the relatives I shared blood with.

There were three people in front of me.

My 40-year-old biological younger brother, Aaron Maxwell. I’d seen his picture before, and now, seeing him in person, he certainly had the polished, sharp look of someone groomed for wealth and power, a true product of an elite family.

Next to him was Eleanor Maxwell, the fake heiress who had taken my place. She was elegant, like most society ladies.

The young woman sitting beside Eleanor was likely her daughter, in her early twenties.

Eleanor Maxwell – that was the name I was supposed to have.

It wasn't a bad name.

But I felt no connection to it.

The mix-up between us wasn't her fault, of course, but her biological mother's.

Apparently, Evelyn Maxwell's friend from decades ago, when Evelyn was happily married and pregnant with her first daughter, suffered a reversal of fortune. Her partner left her, and she found herself pregnant.

Driven by a desperate desire to ensure her child would remain among the elite, she gave birth. It was also a girl.

I don't know the specifics of how the babies were swapped, but she took me and, instead of raising me, abandoned me.

Back then, abandoning a female infant was tragically easy.

But even with the truth now revealed, it changed nothing.

Forty-five years, more than half a lifetime, had passed.

Eleanor Maxwell's biological mother had emigrated years ago and passed away a few years prior.

Their scrutinizing gazes fell on me and my two daughters.

I clearly saw the shock in all three of their eyes.

They hadn't bothered to learn much about me, naturally assuming that a mediocre middle-aged woman would show up today.

Even as family, after decades of being "out there," they expected me to be ordinary, vulgar, or perhaps bitter and resentful.

But I wasn't.

I was very content with myself.