“You’re insane.”
The words left my mouth before I could stop them.
Adrian Vale remained perfectly calm across the table.
The city stretched behind him through towering rain-streaked windows while soft piano music drifted through the private lounge like something expensive and carefully curated.
Meanwhile, my entire reality had just cracked open.
Pretend to be someone’s dead daughter.
No sane person would hear that sentence and continue sitting down.
Yet somehow…
I still was.
“That is a reasonable response,” Adrian said smoothly.
I stared at him.
“You want me to impersonate a dead woman.”
“A dead woman who resembles you naturally.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“No,” he admitted.
“It makes it possible.”
I laughed softly in disbelief and pushed back from the table slightly, dragging a hand through my hair.
“This is insane.”
“You’ve said that already.”
“Because it remains true.”
Adrian watched me quietly.
God, he had the unnerving habit of observing people as if he were collecting information, even in silence.
I looked back down at the photograph lying between us.
Elara Valmere.
Even now, the resemblance felt wrong.
Disturbing.
Like staring into a mirror that reflected a different life entirely.
She looked elegant in the photo beside Cassian Valmere.
Polished.
Untouchable.
The kind of woman who belonged in rooms I probably wouldn’t even be allowed to enter.
And yet she had my face.
Or I had hers.
I didn’t know which possibility unsettled me more.
“What exactly would I even have to do?” I asked finally.
Adrian leaned back slightly in his chair.
“Public appearances initially.”
I blinked.
“That sounded rehearsed.”
“It has been discussed extensively.”
Of course it had.
“Continue.”
“You would undergo preparation first.
Speech coaching.
Behavioural observation.
Styling adjustments.”
“Styling adjustments?”
“Elara presented herself differently than you do currently.”
I narrowed my eyes immediately.
“That felt offensive.”
“It was observational.”
“That’s worse.”
For the first time since entering the lounge, something almost human flickered briefly across Adrian’s face.
Amusement.
Small.
Sharp.
Gone quickly.
“You would not be expected to imitate her perfectly,” he continued calmly.
“People change after trauma.
Grief alters perception.
Distance alters memory.”
The way he explained everything made it sound horrifyingly practical.
Corporate deception wrapped in polished language.
“And Cassian Valmere just…” I gestured vaguely.
“Accepts this?”
Adrian’s expression shifted almost invisibly.
“He has not accepted anything yet.”
The answer caught my attention immediately.
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” Adrian said carefully, “Mr Valmere has not been informed about you.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
The soft music in the lounge suddenly felt too distant.
“You’re planning this behind his back?”
“That sounded very much like yes.”
Adrian folded his hands calmly atop the table.
“Mr Valmere has spent five years avoiding public life after his daughter’s death.
His family handles most external affairs now.”
Something about the way he said family carried weight beneath it.
Not affection.
Something colder.
“He is aware,” Adrian continued, “that I have been searching into certain possibilities.”
“Possibilities,” I repeated slowly.
“You make all of this sound terrifyingly professional.”
“It is professional.”
That answer should not have sent a chill down my spine.
I leaned back in my chair slowly.
“What happens if I say no?”
Adrian didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he studied me quietly for a moment.
“You return to your current life.”
Its simplicity irritated me instantly.
“My current life is falling apart.”
“Yes,” he said softly.
“I know.”
The words landed harder than I expected.
Not because they were cruel.
Because they were true.
I looked away toward the windows.
Rain slid slowly down the glass in silver trails while traffic moved far below like streams of light.
“You don’t know anything about my life,” I muttered.
“You support your family financially despite barely supporting yourself,” Adrian replied calmly.
I froze slightly.
“You work until midnight most evenings while maintaining grades high enough to remain academically eligible at St.
Aureline.”
Silence.
“Your sister requires continued medical treatment.”
I swallowed carefully.
“And despite all of that,” Adrian continued, quieter now, “you still refused to call me for three weeks.”
Something complicated passed briefly through his eyes then.
Respect perhaps.
Or calculation.
Maybe both.
“You make that sound stupid,” I said quietly.
“No,” Adrian replied.
“I make that sound difficult.”
The room fell silent again.
I hated that part of me felt relieved hearing it.
Because exhaustion became unbearable when nobody acknowledged it existed.
I looked back toward the photographs spread carefully across the table.
There were more now.
Elara at charity galas.
Elara beside politicians.
Elara laughed beside Cassian beneath glittering chandeliers.
And every single image felt like watching another version of myself raised beneath completely different stars.
“She really looks like me,” I whispered before thinking.
Adrian noticed immediately.
“Yes.”
I picked up another photograph slowly.
This one looked more candid.
Elara stood near the ocean wearing white linen while the wind swept dark hair across her face.
For one terrible second…
I could almost imagine it was me.
That thought frightened me enough to place the photo down quickly.
“This is wrong.”
“Possibly.”
“You keep saying things like that with absolutely no concern.”
“I concern myself with outcomes.”
I exhaled sharply.
“And what exactly is the outcome here?”
Adrian’s gaze held mine steadily.
“A restored future.”
That answer irritated me instantly.
“You speak like a businessman in a tragic novel.”
“That has been mentioned before.”
I almost laughed despite myself.
Almost.
Then reality settled heavily back over me.
“Really.”
Adrian was silent for several seconds.
Then,
“Because sometimes survival presents itself in unpleasant forms.”
God.
That line settled somewhere deep inside my chest.
Because the worst part…
was understanding exactly what he meant.
My entire life lately had become survival.
Tuition.
Hospital bills.
Rent.
Work shifts.
Stress.
Every dream I once had now existed behind financial barriers.
And Adrian knew it.
Worse, he knew I knew it too.
“What kind of money are we talking about?” I asked before I could stop myself.
The silence that followed felt enormous.
Adrian reached for his coffee calmly before answering.
“Enough to eliminate every financial concern your family currently possesses.”
My heartbeat slowed strangely.
“No one has that kind of money.”
“The Valmeres do.”
I stared at him.
Clara’s hospital room flashed suddenly through my mind.
My mother’s exhausted face.
Noah is staying home from school.
Dad was sitting silently against the hospital wall, looking like life itself had worn him down.
Then, Tessa offered me money I was too proud to accept.
And suddenly the room felt unbearably warm.
“What’s the catch?” I asked quietly.
“There are always risks.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” Adrian admitted.
“It rarely is.”
Before I could respond, his phone buzzed softly against the table.
He glanced down briefly.
Something unreadable crossed his expression.
Then he looked back at me.
“We’re finished for today.”
I blinked.
“That’s it?”
“You’ve received enough information for one meeting.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“You do realise this entire thing feels like manipulation.”
Adrian stood smoothly from his chair.
“Yes.”
At least he was honest.
I rose more slowly.
My head still felt crowded with confusion, disbelief, and the horrifying awareness that part of me had not walked away immediately.
Which probably said terrible things about my current life.
As we moved toward the exit, Adrian stopped briefly beside me.
“One more thing.”
I looked up.
“Your sister’s treatment,” he said calmly.
“Check with the hospital this evening.”
A cold feeling slid through me instantly.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing irreversible.”
“Adrian.”
But he was already walking away.
Calm as ever.
Like a man entirely accustomed to changing lives quietly.
By the time I returned to Windhoek Central Hospital later that evening, rain had started again.
The respiratory ward smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale coffee while nurses moved briskly between beds beneath harsh fluorescent lighting.
My mother looked up immediately when she saw me approaching.
And something in her expression had changed.
Relief.
Confusion.
Hope.
“Liora,” she said softly.
“Someone already paid part of Clara’s treatment.”
Everything inside me went still.
Slowly…
I looked down toward my bag, where the black card still rested hidden inside my wallet like a promise I should never have touched.