“Yes,” Nina said, her voice quieter than she intended. The weight of it settled over her like a lead blanket. But this wasn’t even her fault. Axel hadn’t learned about Adelaide’s illness from her. And yet, she was the one sitting here, about to deliver the kind of news that could crack the very foundation of the Whitlock family.
She glanced around, her pulse kicking up a notch. The dining room was eerily quiet, save for the occasional clink of silverware against china. No housemaids in sight—but that didn’t mean they weren’t nearby. In this house, secrets were currency, and she wasn’t sure if she could afford to speak freely in an open space like this.
Mrs. Whitlock must have sensed her hesitation because she followed Nina’s gaze, scanning the room with sharp, calculating eyes. Then, as if reading her mind, she met Nina’s stare and said, “You can talk freely. No one is here to eavesdrop.”
Nina swallowed. Alright then. No more stalling.
“Axel knows.”
The reaction was instant.
Mr. Whitlock, who had been pretending not to listen, suddenly lifted his head, his eyes snapping toward her. The carefully constructed air of indifference he had maintained up until now shattered in an instant. His expression was a mix of shock and—was that fear?
“Knows what?” he demanded.
Nina flicked her gaze toward Mrs. Whitlock, catching the flicker of emotion in her usually unreadable expression. This was bad. Very bad.
She shifted her attention back to Mr. Whitlock, her voice steady despite the storm brewing inside her. “He knows the specifics of Adelaide’s illness. He knew she had Dysimmunemia. He said he’s been researching a cure for her since then.”
“What?”
Mrs. Whitlock’s composure cracked. For the first time ever, she lost control. Her hands clenched into fists on the table, her eyes burning with disbelief. Mr. Whitlock’s reaction was quieter, but the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his grip tightened around his silverware, told Nina everything she needed to know—this was a disaster.
She didn’t fully understand their panic, but she could feel it in the air, thick and suffocating. The Whitlocks were powerful, untouchable. They had built their empire on control, on secrets, on carefully curated illusions. And if this one secret—Adelaide’s death, her deception—got out?
Everything would crumble.
And she’d go down with them.
Axel had been loyal to the Whitlocks because of Adelaide. Because he loved her. But Adelaide was dead, and Nina was nothing more than a lookalike standing in her place. If he ever found out the truth, if he realized that the girl he had spent months trying to save was gone—what reason would he have to stay?
None.
And worse, what reason would he have not to turn against the Whitlocks?
None at all.
“That’s not possible.” Mrs. Whitlock’s voice was sharp, almost frantic, as she shook her head in quick, jerky movements. Disbelief clouded her features. “Adelaide would never have told him that!” Her voice cracked, and to Nina’s shock, her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “And I think I know exactly what you’re doing.” Her gaze locked onto Nina’s, razor-sharp and accusing. “You’re trying to pin this on Adelaide. You’re blaming her because my poor baby is dead and can’t defend herself.”
“What?” Nina’s breath hitched. Her heart lurched in her chest. How had the conversation twisted into this?
She felt the blood drain from her face. Her pulse roared in her ears. They didn’t fully accept her as their child—she knew that—but this? This was too much.
“I swear, I didn’t tell him anything!” Her voice was raw, desperate.
“Then how did he find out?” Mrs. Whitlock snapped.
Nina swallowed hard, her mind racing. “We were in the garden, and he asked me why I lied about being cured at the party. I—I didn’t think anyone actually knew the specifics of Adelaide’s illness, that’s why I said what I did. But he told me he found out a year ago—” She hesitated, glancing at Mr. Whitlock, whose expression had turned stone-cold. “He said Adelaide was in the bathroom when her phone kept ringing. He checked it, and there was a message from you,” she turned to Mrs. Whitlock, “about her latest medical update. He saw the reports.”
A heavy silence settled over the room.
Mr. Whitlock’s grip tightened around his silverware before he slowly turned his gaze to his wife. His expression darkened, his voice dangerously low. “How many times did I tell you to stop leaving traces of her medical records?” His words were slow, deliberate, and lethal. “And why did you send them to her?”
“Bruce, she’s twisting this,” Mrs. Whitlock said defensively, her voice rising. “Axel found out from her, and now she’s pushing the blame onto Adelaide—and implicating me as well.”
“No! Why would I do that?” Nina’s voice cracked, her eyes burning with tears. “What would I even gain from this?”
Mr. Whitlock didn’t reply. He simply dropped his cutlery onto his plate with a sharp clatter, then pushed his chair back abruptly. The legs scraped against the marble floor as he rose to his feet. Without another word, he strode out of the dining room, his movements stiff with barely contained fury.
Nina barely had a moment to breathe before Mrs. Whitlock’s piercing gaze snapped back to her.
“What have you done?” she hissed, her voice laced with accusation.
Then, just like her husband, she shoved her chair back and shot up from her seat. Without waiting for a response, she turned and hurried out of the room, leaving Nina alone in the suffocating silence.
She remained there, her untouched food growing cold in front of her. Her mind spiraled, turning over every second of the conversation, trying to pinpoint where exactly she had gone wrong.
Was it a mistake to tell them the truth about Axel? Or was her real crime dragging Mrs. Whitlock into it? Because that was what this was really about—Mrs. Whitlock hadn’t wanted the blame anywhere near her. She wanted Nina to take the fall.
But should she have?
Would that have made things better? Or would it have made them so much worse?
A shaky breath escaped her as she stayed frozen in place, the weight of it all pressing down on her chest. She didn’t even realize when the first tear slipped down her cheek. Then another. And another.
It was exhausting, being Adelaide Whitlock.
Wearing her name, slipping into her life, pretending to be part of a family that held more secrets than love. It was like walking on glass—one wrong step, and she’d bleed for it.
And yet, as she sat there, staring blankly at the gleaming chandelier above her, a thought hit her so suddenly it nearly stole her breath.
She missed her parents.
She missed the tiny, crumbling apartment. The nights they spent counting pennies, stretching meals, hoping tomorrow would somehow be kinder. They had nothing—drowning in debt, constantly scraping by—but at least they weren’t at war with each other.
At least, back then, she knew who she was.
Now?
Now, she wasn’t sure at all.