Saturday mornings felt different at the Valmere estate.
Not quieter.
The place was always quiet.
It was the kind of quiet that seemed built into the walls.
The kind that settled into furniture and lingered beneath expensive chandeliers.
Back home, Saturdays meant Noah blasting music too early in the morning while Clara complained about it from the next room.
Mum would already be awake, preparing breakfast, and someone would inevitably start an argument over who forgot to buy something during the week.
There had always been noise.
Life.
Here, silence woke up before everyone else.
I sat upright in bed and stared toward the enormous windows stretching across one side of the room.
The sky outside was pale blue.
For a few seconds, I forgot where I was.
Then I remembered.
The estate.
The contract.
Elara.
Adrian.
The portrait.
The thought of it immediately resurfaced.
That painting had stayed in my mind all night.
Not because of the resemblance.
Because of the expression.
Elara hadn’t looked like a dead girl in that portrait.
She had looked alive.
Happy.
Real.
And somehow that bothered me more than the similarities.
I threw the blankets aside and walked toward the windows.
Far below, gardeners moved through the grounds.
The estate stretched endlessly beyond them.
Beautiful.
Cold.
Impressive.
And completely unfamiliar.
My phone suddenly vibrated on the bedside table.
Mum.
A smile appeared before I could stop it.
I answered immediately.
“Mum.”
“There she is!” my mother exclaimed.
The warmth in her voice instantly softened something inside me.
For the next few minutes, the enormous estate disappeared.
It was just home.
Just family.
Just normal.
“How are you?” Mum asked.
“I’m okay.”
“You sound tired.”
I laughed.
“That never changes.”
“True.”
I heard another voice in the background.
Then Noah practically stole the phone.
“Liora!”
I winced.
“Must you yell?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m excited.”
I smiled despite myself.
“And why are you excited?”
“My tuition has been paid.”
Silence.
Then he continued before I could answer.
“Do you know how amazing that is?”
I swallowed carefully.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t have to miss classes.”
The happiness in his voice hurt.
Not because it was bad.
Because I hadn’t heard him sound that carefree in months.
Before I could answer, Clara appeared.
“Give me the phone.”
“No.”
“Give me the phone.”
“No.”
A struggle followed.
Then:
“Liora!”
I laughed.
“There she is.”
“You should see me.”
“Why?”
“I’m home.”
The smile faded into something softer.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better.”
“Actually better?”
“Actually better.”
Relief washed through me.
Real relief.
Not the kind I’d been forcing lately.
The genuine kind.
The kind that loosened knots you hadn’t noticed carrying.
“You sound happy.”
“I am.”
Silence settled briefly between us.
Then Clara lowered her voice.
“When are you coming home?”
The question caught me off guard.
My chest tightened.
Soon.
That was what I wanted to say.
But the truth was…
I had no idea.
Not anymore.
“I’ll visit,” I said carefully.
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Liar.”
I laughed.
“You sound exactly like Tessa.”
That earned an immediate response.
“Speaking of Tessa, where is she?”
Mum’s voice.
The question made me freeze.
Only slightly.
“Tessa?”
“Yes.”
“She isn’t around.”
A lie.
Small.
Simple.
Easy.
The worst kind.
“Oh.”
Mum sounded unconcerned.
“Tell her I said hello.”
“I will.”
The lie settled heavily in my stomach.
I changed the subject immediately.
“Where’s Dad?”
That worked.
“Oh, your father is loving his new job.”
I smiled.
“Really?”
“Honestly, I think he’s happier than he’s been in years.”
That image surprised me.
Dad smiling.
Dad relaxed.
Dad without the constant pressure sitting on his shoulders.
The conversation continued for another ten minutes.
Normal things.
Family things.
Tiny things.
Then, eventually, goodbyes arrived.
The call ended.
And silence returned.
Only this time it felt heavier.
Because every person I loved sounded happier.
Safer.
More secure.
And every improvement traced back to one source.
Adrian Vale.
The thought followed me downstairs.
I found him in one of the estate’s libraries.
Of course.
The room looked like something from an old film.
Dark wood shelves.
Floor-to-ceiling books.
Sunlight pouring through tall windows.
And Adrian is sitting comfortably in a leather chair, reading through documents.
He glanced up when I entered.
“Good morning.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“You paid Noah’s tuition.”
“No.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“I arranged for it to be paid.”
I stared.
“That is literally the same thing.”
“I disagree.”
Of course he did.
I walked further into the room.
“You also got my father a job.”
Finally, Adrian lowered the papers.
“Your father got himself a job.”
I folded my arms.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet here you are.”
I hated how often he used that line.
The annoying thing?
It kept working.
I leaned against a bookshelf.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then the question escaped before I could stop it.
“Who was she?”
Adrian looked up.
Silence.
Long silence.
Then:
“Elara.”
I rolled my eyes.
“You know exactly what I mean.”
Another pause.
This one is longer.
Then:
“Why?”
I frowned.
Because he never asked why.
Not really.
Usually, he just answered or avoided answering.
“I saw her portrait.”
Nothing.
“I’ve seen photographs.”
Still nothing.
“Everyone keeps teaching me how to become her.”
My voice softened.
“But nobody tells me who she was.
And I can’t believe that we never even crossed paths once.”
The library became very quiet.
For a second, something shifted in Adrian’s expression.
Gone almost immediately.
But there.
Then he stood.
Walked toward one of the shelves.
And pulled out something.
A notebook.
Dark leather.
Worn edges.
Used.
Real.
He held it out.
I stared.
“What is that?”
“One of her journals.”
My eyes widened.
“What?”
“Return it later.”
I looked between him and the journal.
Suspicion exploded instantly.
“You just had this?”
“Yes.”
“That’s concerning.”
“It isn’t.”
“It absolutely is.”
Which somehow made it worse.
I took the journal carefully.
The leather felt warm from his hand.
Used.
Personal.
Private.
Suddenly, it felt like I was holding a piece of someone.
Not Elara Valmere.
Just Elara.
And somehow that felt more dangerous.
Back in my room, curiosity won immediately.
I sat cross-legged on the bed and opened the journal.
The first page wasn’t dramatic.
No tragic secrets.
No shocking revelations.
Just handwriting.
Neat.
Confident.
Alive.
The date at the top showed she had been twenty-three.
I started reading.
And quickly discovered something surprising.
Elara was funny.
Not intentionally.
Just naturally.
One entry complained about a charity dinner.
Apparently, she’d spent four hours listening to wealthy people argue about wine.
Another described hiding from reporters.
One page contained an entire paragraph dedicated to her dislike of olives.
Olives.
I stared at the page.
Then laughed.
Actually laughed.
Because somehow I hadn’t expected something so normal.
So human.
The more I read, the stranger it became.
Not because she was different from me.
Because in small ways…
She wasn’t.
Stubborn.
Sarcastic.
Opinionated.
Occasionally dramatic.
I flipped another page.
Then another.
Hours slipped past unnoticed.
The journal slowly transformed her from a portrait into a person.
And that scared me.
Because I was beginning to like her.
Several pages later, something slipped free.
A photograph.
I picked it up.
Two girls stood together.
Laughing.
Young.
Happy.
Elara was unmistakable.
The other girl wasn’t.
I turned the photo over.
Words written neatly across the back.
Don’t disappear on me again.
I frowned.
No name.
Nothing else.
Just that.
Questions immediately surfaced.
Who was she?
Friend?
Relative?
Someone important?
I slipped the photograph back into the journal carefully.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
That evening, I finally left my room.
The moment I stepped into the hallway, something felt different.
The estate was moving.
Not physically.
But energetically.
Staff hurried through corridors.
Security personnel appeared in places I’d never seen them before.
Conversations stopped when others approached.
Whispers drifted through hallways.
Something was happening.
I followed the movement downstairs.
A staff member carrying folders nearly walked into me.
I stepped aside quickly.
“Sorry.”
The woman stopped.
“No problem, Miss Bennett.”
I hesitated.
Then:
“What’s going on?”
She immediately looked uncomfortable.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
For a moment, I thought she wouldn’t answer.
Then she lowered her voice.
“Mr Valmere is returning tonight.”
Silence.
Everything seemed to stop.
The hallway.
The conversations.
Even my breathing.
Returning.
Not arriving.
Returning.
The distinction mattered.
Because suddenly the man I’d heard about for weeks wasn’t some distant figure hidden inside stories and photographs.
He was real.
And he was coming back.
Tonight.
The staff member hurried away moments later.
But I remained exactly where I was.
Standing in the middle of the hallway.
Journal is still upstairs.
Questions multiplying.
And somewhere beyond the estate grounds, the man whose daughter I was being trained to become was on his way home.