chapter 2

If perfection had a face, it would look like Morgana Whitlock.

Blonde hair like gold-spun silk cascaded down her back as she stood in front of the floor-length mirror, applying a cherry-red gloss to her already heart-shaped lips. Her skin glowed, her lashes curled to impossible lengths. Her green eyes, sharp and unreadable, seemed to smirk even when her mouth didn’t.

She was tall leggy, lean, and far too beautiful for her own age.

The sun hadn’t fully risen, but her bedroom was already drenched in soft amber light filtered through linen drapes. Her room looked like it belonged in a fashion magazine: marble floors, cream walls, a chandelier hanging low enough to sparkle off her vanity.

“Morgana!” her mother’s voice rang from downstairs, clipped and polished. “Your driver’s here!”

“Coming!” Morgana called back, slipping into her black mini skirt and cropped blazer. She added a silver chain choker, sprayed a mist of expensive perfume, and gave herself a final once-over.

She looked rich. She looked dangerous.

She looked like she ruled the world.

Downstairs, the Whitlock mansion buzzed like a royal hive.

Her father, Theodore Whitlock, sat in the dining room skimming the stock market updates on his tablet, a glass of imported green juice untouched beside him. Her mother, Claudine, dressed in pearls and pastels, inspected the housekeeper’s work like a bored queen.

“You’re late,” Claudine said as Morgana floated down the spiral staircase, heels clicking. Her tone was casual, but the tension in her brow said more.

Morgana shrugged. “Beauty takes time, Mother.”

Her older sister, Simone, rolled her eyes from across the room. She wore a skinny jeans and an halter neck flowery top coupled with expensive jweleries and an expression permanently set to disdain. "More like vanity takes time."

Morgana smiled sweetly. “Aww. Jealousy doesn’t look cute on you, babe.”

Their brother, Damian, entered with two mugs of coffee—one of which he handed to Morgana. “Don’t listen to them, Momo. You look iconic.” He winked. “As usual.”

Morgana’s face lit up. Damian was the only one who really saw her. Even when she didn't see herself.

“Thanks, D,” she said, sipping.

He ruffled her hair as she passed, smirking. “Don’t cause too much trouble at school.”

“No promises,” she tossed over her shoulder.

Outside, a black luxury car waited in the circular driveway. The chauffeur opened the door for her with a nod.

Morgana slid in and crossed her legs, phone already in hand, scrolling through her messages. A group of guys from her class had flooded her DMs again. Some were sweet. Others were disgusting.

She replied to none of them.

As the car rolled past the gates, Morgana glanced out at the trees flanking the road. They were thick and dark, swaying strangely with the wind.

For a split second, something shifted. Her reflection in the window didn’t move with her—just stared back with a strange smile. Like a glitch. Like a whisper behind the glass.

Morgana blinked.

It was gone.

She frowned faintly, looked at her hands. They were shaking.

Why?

The world outside sparkled with wealth and safety. Her life was perfect.

So why did she sometimes feel like it wasn’t hers?

Like she was living in someone else's skin?

psh! be real Morgana!, thats illusion, she told herself

The city was slowly waking up.

As Morgana’s sleek black car sliced through traffic, she leaned back against the plush leather seat, one leg crossed over the other, the glow of her phone lighting up her face. Her lock screen was a selfie flawless, confident, captivating. She hated it. But she left it anyway.

The driver, Bernard, didn’t speak unless spoken to. Just the way she liked it.

Skyscrapers passed like silent giants. The streetlamps blinked out one by one as the daylight crept in, but the shadows between buildings seemed to linger, unnaturally long, unnaturally still.

She scrolled through her playlist and picked a moody track. A bass-heavy beat filled the car. Something dark. Something sultry.

Something… wrong?

She shook her head and looked up.

There it was again.

Her reflection in the window.

It was staring at her—dead-on—while her real face had just turned away. The girl in the glass smiled… slowly. Deliberately.

Morgana’s heart skipped.

She blinked. The reflection moved in time with her again.

She sat up straighter, gripping the phone. “I’m tripping,” she whispered.

But this wasn’t new.

She’d always had weird moments. Glitches in reality. Deja vu so sharp it felt like a knife. Dreams that bled into real life. Once, when she was eight, she’d stared into the bathroom mirror for hours, convinced the girl inside wasn’t her.

Her parents said it was just anxiety. Her sister said it was attention-seeking.

But Damian… he never judged. He just told her: “Don’t fight it. You feel more because maybe there’s more to you.”

The car pulled through the arched gates of Blackwell Academy for the Gifted and Elite. The school looked like a castle dropped in the middle of the city: stone towers, vine-covered walls, iron gates that clicked behind them like prison bars.

Bernard parked and came around to open her door.

Morgana stepped out like a movie star. Heads turned. Phones rose. People stared. Girls studied her outfits. Boys whispered. She wore confidence like a shield and underneath it, a storm.

Her boots crunched on the path as she strutted toward the building. Her mini skirt swayed just enough to draw attention, and her lips curled in a smirk that said I know I’m untouchable.

But just before she reached the steps, she paused.

Across the courtyard, near the old fountain, a girl was staring at her. Not a student. Not anyone Morgana recognized.

She was dressed in black. Pale. Hair like pitch. Her eyes were hollow, almost bruised-looking, and too wide. And she didn’t blink.

Morgana’s smirk faltered.

The girl tilted her head… and mouthed her name.

Not “Morgana.”

Not “Hey.”

Just… “Sister.”

Morgana's blood went cold.

A blink later, the girl was gone. Vanished. Like she was never there.

Morgana stood frozen, the wind whispering around her like laughter caught in the trees.

She clutched her bag tighter, straightened her back, and marched up the stairs ignoring the icy chill creeping down her spine.