The photograph refused to leave her mind.
Adelina had tucked it away, hidden deep within a drawer in her room, but the image was burned into her memory—Nathan, smiling freely, arms around a girl who looked like her. Or rather, the girl she had become.
Ileana.
Even her name felt like a whisper from someone else's past, carried on the wind to settle in Adelina's bones. And now, that past hovered between them like a stormcloud—unspoken, but felt.
For days, she avoided Nathan. Claimed headaches. Buried herself in reading. Took her meals in her room. Mira noticed, of course, but didn't push.
"You're doing that thing again," Mira said, perched on the edge of her bed. "The thinking-too-much thing. Dangerous hobby in this house."
Adelina managed a hollow smile. "I think not thinking would be worse."
Still, it was only a matter of time before she had to face him.
It happened in the garden.
She had gone to the east courtyard at dusk, hoping for solitude, but Nathan was already there, seated on the low stone bench beneath the wisteria arch. The purple blossoms cast their shadow across his face, softening features that had grown increasingly unreadable.
He didn't look at her when he spoke.
"You've been avoiding me."
Adelina stood still. The wind lifted strands of her hair, and she didn't brush them away.
"I needed time," she said.
"I understand," he said. But his voice was tight.
She took a step closer. "Why didn't you tell me about her?"
His jaw worked. "Because it wouldn't have changed anything."
"It changes everything."
Now he looked at her. And there it was—naked honesty, raw and sharp.
"You were never meant to replace her," he said.
"But I did," she whispered. "Didn't I?"
He stood then, slowly, and closed the distance between them. He wasn't touching her. But he didn't need to. His presence wrapped around her like gravity.
"You're not her, Adelina."
"Then why do you look at me like I am?"
His expression flickered.
"I try not to," he said quietly.
The confession shattered something inside her.
She stepped back, but not far. "Nathan, what are we doing?"
Silence stretched between them.
Then he said, "I don't know anymore."
Her breath caught in her throat. Because she didn't know either.
That night, she couldn't sleep.
She walked the halls again, barefoot, silent. Something drew her toward the library, though she didn't know why. Maybe she hoped for clarity between the shelves of history.
Instead, she found him.
Nathan stood near the fireplace, one hand gripping the mantel, the other clutching a glass of dark amber liquid. His shirt sleeves were rolled, his collar undone. He looked less like a brother and more like a man unraveling.
He turned when she entered. Didn't speak.
Neither did she.
Instead, she crossed the room, slowly, carefully.
The silence between them buzzed.
She reached for the book he had abandoned on the table, brushing past him. Her hand grazed his. Just lightly.
He flinched.
She looked up.
His eyes were on her lips.
He stepped back. Barely. "You should go."
She didn't move. "Tell me the truth."
His breath was shallow now. "Which part?"
"Why you look at me like that."
He laughed. Bitter. "Because I've tried everything not to."
And just like that, the space between them collapsed.
He moved first—just a step, but enough that her back hit the wall of books behind her. His hand braced beside her head. He wasn't touching her. But he might as well have been.
His voice was hoarse. "I'm not your brother by blood."
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"I know," she said.
He leaned in closer. "But I raised you. I held your hand when you had nightmares. I taught you how to swim. I carried you when you were sick. You were mine to protect."
His eyes closed briefly, like the memory hurt. "But then you grew up. And you started looking at me like I was something else. And I..."
His voice broke.
"I started looking back."
Tears burned her eyes. "Nathan..."
He opened his eyes. "I'm not proud of it."
Adelina reached up—only barely, fingertips ghosting against his collar.
She wanted to say something. Anything.
But no words came.
So he stepped back.
"I can't do this," he said, and walked away.
The next morning, the air in the estate was still and heavy.
Adelina didn't see Nathan at breakfast.
Didn't see him in the hall.
Didn't hear his voice.
It should have brought relief. It didn't.
She sat alone in the greenhouse, staring out at the garden where everything had changed.
Mira approached, holding a tray of tea.
"Is it done?" she asked gently.
Adelina didn't answer right away. Then: "I need space."
"From him?"
"From myself."
That evening, she packed a bag.
Not to run.
Just to breathe.
She told the staff she was taking a few days at the Gavrila country house by the coast. Nathan would find out. But she couldn't be here—not when every hallway whispered with memories, with what-ifs.
She left just after sunset.
The drive was long, the road winding.
She watched the moon follow her through the window.
Halfway through the trip, her phone buzzed.
A message.
Unknown Number:
You can't run from what's inside you. He never did.
She dropped the phone.
Outside, the forest pressed close to the road.
And somewhere ahead, in the growing dark, something waited.
Someone.
A past she didn't yet understand.
A future she wasn't sure she could survive.