I was seven the first time I copied someone into a hospital bed. My stepmother fainted for attention, so I did too—and woke two days later with an IV in my arm. After that, my father made one rule: no one is allowed to be theatrical in front of Eleanor Ashford. No crying. No dramatic exits. No being human. I became a heiress to be managed, not understood. At eighteen, I’m ordered to become the public face of a foundation with Vivienne Vane, the rival heiress whose father just merged with mine. She’s calm, sharp, and sees straight through me. When my stepmother stages another meltdown, Vivienne catches me sitting on my hands to keep from copying it. Then she gives me a dangerous new rule: “Don’t copy them. Copy me.” But copying someone who’s actually happy means feeling everything. And in a family built on control, that might be the one act that destroys me.