The voice haunted her.
It had been soft, almost tender, but the way it spoke her name—Adelina... come back—rattled her more than the scream from nights before. She hadn't told anyone. Not even Nathan. Something in her instinct warned: if she did, he might lock the entire west wing for good.
Instead, she kept her distance. But her mind didn't.
The voice came back in fragments. In dreams. In whispers.
The next event on her public calendar was a formal business luncheon in the city. Victor insisted she attend, flanked as always by Nathan, whose looming presence had become a given.
The venue was glass and chrome—modern, sterile, shining with polite smiles and clinking silverware. Adelina hated it instantly.
She barely touched her food, letting the cadence of corporate conversation wash over her. Until a voice broke through it all.
"Well, I'll be damned."
An older man in a navy suit approached their table. He was tall, trim, with salt-and-pepper hair and a tan that screamed privilege. His voice was low, but his eyes were sharp with recognition.
"Victor," he said, nodding to her father. "I didn't know you'd brought her."
Victor's expression froze. "Adelina, this is Emil Dobre. He runs the Virel Group."
Adelina stood, extending a hand. "A pleasure."
But Emil didn't take her hand. He just stared.
"You look exactly like her," he said.
Victor's jaw tightened. Nathan stepped closer.
"I'm sorry?" Adelina asked, confused.
Emil blinked, catching himself. "Forgive me. You just reminded me of someone. A long time ago. It's... uncanny."
Nathan's voice cut through the moment like a blade.
"She's not her."
The words weren't angry. But they were final.
Emil gave a tight smile and stepped back. "Of course not."
The conversation moved on, but Adelina couldn't.
Nathan's fingers lightly brushed hers under the table—a silent message: not now.
But later, in the car, she asked.
"Who was he talking about?" she said.
Nathan didn't respond.
"Nathan."
He sighed, eyes on the road. "It doesn't matter."
"Yes, it does."
His jaw clenched. "You wouldn't remember. You were too young."
"Try me."
Silence.
Then: "There was a girl. From another family. A rival conglomerate. Her name was Ileana. She was... important. To a lot of people."
"Important to you?"
He didn't answer.
Adelina turned to face him. "Why do I look like her?"
Nathan pulled the car to a stop at a red light. His grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles went white.
"I don't know," he said finally. "But it's not just the way you look."
"What do you mean?"
He glanced at her. "You say things. The same phrases. The same mannerisms. Sometimes... you even tilt your head like she did."
Adelina felt cold.
"And what happened to her?"
"She died," he said. "A long time ago. It was covered up. Everyone was told it was an accident."
"Was it?"
Nathan didn't respond.
That night, the dreams returned. But they weren't dreams anymore.
She was standing on a pier.
Wearing white.
Hands were around her waist—strong, possessive.
She turned.
It was Nathan.
Only... it wasn't Adelina.
The woman in the dream had longer hair. A softer voice. She wore a necklace with a pearl, not a sapphire.
He kissed her.
And whispered something in her ear—words she couldn't quite hear.
Then everything went black.
Adelina woke up gasping, the sheets tangled around her body like restraints.
She sat up, her skin slick with sweat. Her reflection in the mirror across the room looked pale. Haunted.
Whose memories are these?
Later that day, she wandered into the east wing where the oldest portraits of the Gavrila lineage were kept. She needed air. Space. Answers.
Most of the faces on the walls were unfamiliar, dull with time.
But then she saw it.
A black-and-white photo. Slightly out of place. Resting behind the glass of an antique cabinet.
She opened it.
Pulled the photo free.
It was Nathan.
Younger. Late teens. Smiling—something rare and real.
His arm was around a girl.
She was laughing, leaning into him.
And she looked exactly like Adelina.
Same eyes.
Same face.
Only... it wasn't her.
Her breath caught.
The back of the photo was blank. No names. No date. Nothing.
But she knew.
This was Ileana.
The girl who had died.
The girl who looked just like her.
And suddenly, a terrifying possibility bloomed in her chest:
Was she chosen for this life... because she was a replacement?