Sylvy's laughter faded into the suffocating silence of the cabin.
Her golden eyes gleamed in the dim light, studying him with something unnatural.
Something wrong.
Then, softly, carefully, she asked—
"Why do you think this isn't real, Ragnar?"
Ragnar's grip on Liam remained tight, steady.
Because I remember the real version of this night.
Because tomorrow, you die.
Because this is a lie.
But he didn't say any of that.
Instead, he watched her.
Waiting.
The air between them shifted.
Sylvy's fingers curled around the hem of her dress, her posture too perfect.
Too controlled.
Ragnar exhaled slowly. "What are you?"
Sylvy tilted her head. "Your wife."
Ragnar said nothing.
Because that was the wrong answer.
If this was really her, she wouldn't have said something so shallow.
She would have teased him.
She would have rolled her eyes and said, I'm the only woman crazy enough to love you.
But this Sylvy—
This thing pretending to be her—didn't say that.
