The message haunted her.
Even as Nathan whisked her away from the gala and tightened the security detail around her, even after the number was blocked and her phone replaced—Adelina couldn't shake the cold that had seeped into her bones.
They're all watching you. But I know who you really are.
Who sent it? How did they know? And worse—what exactly did they know?
Nathan had refused to give her answers, insisting only that he would "handle it." That night, he stationed guards at her door and installed a new encryption system on her devices. But he never spoke of the message again.
So, she began searching for her own answers.
The mansion's medical wing was tucked away in a quieter section of the estate, past the music rooms and private gym. It wasn't marked by signs, only a keypad-locked door and the faint antiseptic smell that lingered in the hallway.
Adelina waited until late morning, when Nathan was in meetings and most of the staff were busy preparing for an upcoming press dinner. She had overheard Mira mention that the medical records were kept "for legal purposes," and something in her gut told her the truth about Adelina's past was hidden there.
With Mira distracting the nurse on duty under the pretense of a skincare emergency, Adelina slipped into the archive room.
It was colder than she expected. Rows of locked filing cabinets, a computer station humming quietly, and boxes labeled with initials.
She found a drawer marked A.G. and pulled it open.
Inside were folders—chronologically ordered.
Her hands trembled as she opened the earliest one.
Age 5: Recurrent respiratory infections. Diagnosed with mild immunodeficiency.
Age 8: Hospitalized for severe allergic reaction. Prescribed isolation protocols for recovery.
Age 10: Therapy records. Noted signs of social withdrawal. Emotional fragility. Recommendation: limited public exposure.
Age 13: Onset of panic attacks. Medication prescribed. Reports of nocturnal hallucinations.
Adelina's breath caught.
There were pages of it. Doctors' notes. Specialist evaluations. Every entry described a child who had been kept from the world, confined in layers of caution and control. It wasn't protection—it was captivity wrapped in a diagnosis.
But something didn't add up.
The symptoms were too scattered, too convenient. And many reports ended with the same phrase:
Cleared by family physician. No further testing recommended.
Someone had closed every door before it could open.
"Miss Adelina?"
She jumped.
At the door stood a man in his sixties—gray hair, crisp uniform, eyes filled with hesitant recognition.
"Do you remember me?" he asked gently. "I'm Gheorghe. I was your nurse for nearly ten years."
Adelina smiled faintly. "I think I do."
He stepped inside, hands behind his back.
"I used to bring you lemon tea in the mornings. You'd hum to yourself when you thought no one was listening."
Her throat tightened. "Gheorghe... was I really so sick all the time?"
He hesitated.
"You were... delicate. That's what they called it."
"Did you ever believe that?"
He looked away. "I believe what I was told to believe."
Adelina stepped closer. "Please. I need the truth."
Gheorghe's eyes softened. "There was an incident. When you were very young. After that, everything changed. The restrictions. The medications. The isolation. No one spoke of it directly. But everyone adjusted."
"What incident?"
Before he could answer, the door flew open.
Nathan.
His eyes locked onto her, then flicked to Gheorghe.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, voice low.
Adelina quickly gathered the folders, her heart racing.
"I was just looking for answers," she said. "You won't give them to me."
Nathan's jaw tightened. He turned to Gheorghe.
"Leave us."
Gheorghe bowed, reluctant, and left the room.
Nathan closed the door behind him. Silence stretched.
"You had no right," he said finally.
"I have every right. It's my life."
"Not anymore. Not since you died."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Adelina froze.
He closed his eyes. "I didn't mean it like that."
"Yes, you did."
She stepped back, the folders clutched to her chest.
"You know something. About that incident. About what happened to her—me."
Nathan moved toward her. "Let it go, Adelina."
"Why? Because you're afraid I'll remember something you don't want me to?"
His hand shot out, catching her wrist—but gently, not to hurt.
"I'm afraid you'll remember something that will hurt you."
She pulled away.
"I'd rather face the truth than live in a lie."
That night, she dreamed.
A dark hallway.
Crying.
A locked door. Screaming behind it. A small hand reaching out—bloodied fingers. A voice calling her name.
"Adelina, don't go in there!"
She turned—light. Then nothing.
Adelina woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat, sheets tangled around her limbs. Her heart thundered in her chest, the dream still clinging to her skin like a cold shiver.
She couldn't breathe.
A knock came. Then the door opened, and Nathan stepped in, barefoot, eyes already scanning her face.
He crossed the room and sat beside her.
"Another nightmare?"
She didn't answer. She couldn't.
He reached out, gently wiping the sweat from her temple with his sleeve.
"Talk to me."
"I saw something," she whispered. "There was blood. A voice. Someone calling for me."
Nathan's face darkened.
"I don't know what it means," she said. "But it felt real."
He was silent for a long time, his thumb brushing circles on the back of her hand.
"You don't have to be afraid," he said softly.
"I think I always was."
She looked up at him, and for a moment, the wall between them cracked. Not shattered—but shifted.
He leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek.
"You're safe now. I won't let anything touch you."
"But someone already has," she said.
Nathan's eyes flickered.
Before he could speak, her phone buzzed again.
One new message. Same unknown number.
You're starting to remember, aren't you?
Adelina's fingers trembled.
Nathan took the phone from her hand.
His expression changed.
Dark. Cold. Controlled.
"I think it's time," he said, "you met the one person who's never stopped watching you."
"Who?"
He looked at her, then whispered:
"Your real mother."