Somehow, she had made it back to her room in one piece, though she had no recollection of the walk. The weight of Mrs. Whitlock’s accusations still pressed against her chest, suffocating, while the unspoken tension from the dining table clung to her like a second skin. Her body had moved on autopilot, dragging her away from the wreckage of that conversation before she could fully process the damage left behind.
Now, lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the full weight of her choices settled on her like an anchor.
Becoming Adelaide Whitlock had once felt like survival—a way out. But now, every step felt like walking a razor’s edge, slipping into shoes that had never been her size. And the worst part? She didn’t know how much longer she could walk in them without falling.
Questions churned in her head, tangled and relentless. They chased her deep into the night, twisting, turning, until her thoughts blurred into exhaustion. She had no idea when she finally drifted off, but when she shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable, a strange awareness settled over her.
She was still in yesterday’s clothes.
The realization barely registered. She didn’t move, didn’t react. Just lay there, staring blankly at the intricate molding on the ceiling, her chest hollow and heavy at the same time.
What would today bring?
Another confrontation? A test she couldn’t possibly pass? The uncertainty gnawed at her, a slow, insidious dread curling deep in her stomach.
Then—
A soft knock at the door.
Her breath hitched. Her eyes flicked toward the sound, pulse suddenly too loud in her ears.
“Are you awake?”
The voice was unmistakable. Janet Whitlock.
She bolted upright, her heart slamming against her ribs. Her gaze darted to the clock—just past six.
Too early. Too soon.
“Yes, uh…” Her voice wobbled as she scrambled to straighten her clothes, smoothing them down as if that would somehow make her more composed. Her hands moved on instinct, yanking at the sheets, fixing the pillows—why was she even doing this? Shouldn’t her bed be messy? Shouldn’t she look like she had just woken up?
Her mind was still frayed from last night’s fight.
“You can come in,” she finally forced out, her throat tight.
The door creaked open.
Mrs. Whitlock stepped inside.
Her expression was unreadable as she shut the door behind her, the soft click of the latch echoing in the quiet room. She took slow, measured steps forward—not threatening, but not entirely warm either. At least she wasn’t frowning. That had to count for something.
When she stopped beside the bed, she didn’t speak right away. Her gaze flickered over the half-made, half-crumpled sheets. Then, to her surprise, a small smile tugged at the corner of Mrs. Whitlock’s lips.
She braced herself. Surely, there would be a comment about her disheveled state, some scolding for the mess.
But then—Mrs. Whitlock moved.
Without a word, she settled onto the edge of the bed.
She blinked.
Mrs. Whitlock? Sitting? Here?
A soft sigh escaped the woman’s lips before she patted the space beside her. “Sit with me.”
She didn’t move. Just stared. Had she misheard?
Mrs. Whitlock patted the space again, this time with more insistence. “Sit down, will you?”
Her voice was different—gentle, devoid of its usual sharpness or condescension. That alone sent a fresh wave of unease through her. But still, hesitantly, she shifted forward and lowered herself onto the bed beside her.
Mrs. Whitlock studied her for a long moment, eyes searching for something she couldn’t quite name. Then, slowly, she reached out her hands.
She stiffened.
Why was she doing that? What did she want?
She just stared at those outstretched hands, confusion etched across her face. Mrs. Whitlock must have noticed because, with a small nod, she took her hands in hers.
“I see your efforts,” she murmured. “And I commend them.”
Her breath hitched.
Mrs. Whitlock shook her head, as if scolding herself, before continuing, “It’s not easy being Adelaide. I won’t pretend that it is. And I know how difficult it must have been for you, trying to master everything about her in just two months.”
She kept blinking, half in disbelief, half in shock. Was this really Mrs. Whitlock? The same woman who, just last night, had practically thrown her to the wolves?
A slow breath. “Last night’s fight… it shouldn’t have happened. And I shouldn’t have placed the blame on you the way I did. That was unfair of me.” A hesitation, a falter. “I came here to apologize.”
She sucked in a sharp breath.
“You’re here because we wanted you here,” Mrs. Whitlock continued, her voice softer now. “And yes, our agreement is… transactional, in some ways. But that doesn’t mean we should treat you as anything less than family. Like a tool. Like you’re disposable.”
She hadn’t realized she was crying until Mrs. Whitlock whispered, “Please don’t cry.”
And then, even softer, as if she were afraid the words might break something fragile between them, she asked, “May I give you a hug?”
She barely managed a nod before Mrs. Whitlock pulled her close.
The woman’s arms wrapped around her—warm, steady, yet filled with an aching sadness she didn’t know how to process.
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Whitlock murmured into her hair, “if I’ve ever made you feel any less than important.”
She nodded, unable to form words past the tightness in her throat. The tears just kept coming, unchecked, spilling onto expensive silk pajamas.
Mrs. Whitlock didn’t pull away, not until the sobs had quieted. And even then, she only leaned back enough to cup her face in both hands, thumbs brushing away the dampness on her cheeks.
She blinked in surprise when she saw the sheen of unshed tears in Mrs. Whitlock’s own eyes.
“Adelaide’s death still doesn’t feel real to me,” the woman confessed, voice barely above a whisper. “It haunts me every day. And what’s worse? I don’t even get the chance to grieve for her properly. I have to act strong—for the world, for this family. And on top of that… I have to pretend you are her.”
She exhaled shakily, closing her eyes for a brief moment before meeting her gaze again. “There’s nothing wrong with how you’ve been performing. You’ve done everything right. And maybe… maybe that’s what makes it even harder.”
A hollow, bitter laugh. “You’re living the life that belonged to my daughter. And I hate that. But at the same time… I need you too. Do you see how twisted that is?”
Her voice cracked, and for the first time, she saw it—the weight of it all. The grief. The guilt. The unbearable pressure.
“I don’t expect you to understand me,” Mrs. Whitlock admitted. “And I’m not trying to justify the way I acted last night. But I need you to know how I feel. Why I’ve been distant. Why I’ve been cold.”
A squeeze of her hands, firm and grounding.
“All I ask is that you be patient with me,” Mrs. Whitlock said. “While I figure out how to live in this nightmare.”