The conversation should have started immediately. But instead, Mrs. Whitlock reached for a serving spoon, her movements graceful and deliberate.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, a knowing glint in her eyes. “But we eat first.”
Just like that, the tension in the air shifted—not gone, but momentarily replaced by the rich, mouthwatering aroma of the food before them.
The spread was nothing short of extravagant. Fluffy, golden croissants sat next to neatly arranged fruit platters, the vibrant colors of strawberries, grapes, and mango slices glistening under the dining room’s elegant lighting. There were delicate smoked salmon canapés, eggs cooked to perfection, and a creamy dish that looked like it had been lifted straight from a five-star restaurant’s menu.
She watched, slightly stunned, as Mrs. Whitlock served her husband first, then herself, and—to her utter surprise—her.
“Do you care for this?” Mrs. Whitlock asked, her spoon hovering over a dish with what looked like a rich, velvety truffle risotto, the scent of butter and parmesan teasing the senses.
“Uhm… Yes, please.”
With practiced precision, Mrs. Whitlock placed a serving on her plate before moving to the next dish. Each time, she asked for her preference before adding a careful portion, and by the time she was done, her plate was filled with a perfectly balanced selection.
She stared at it, momentarily at a loss for words. She didn’t have to serve her. A maid could have done it. She could have done it herself. But Mrs. Whitlock had.
“Thank you,” she said, the words feeling almost awkward coming out of her mouth.
Mrs. Whitlock simply nodded, picking up her cutlery. “Eat up.”
She hesitated for a second before picking up her fork, the taste of the first bite melting on her tongue. Whatever was coming after this meal, she had a feeling it wasn’t going to be as easy to swallow.
The dining room remained quiet except for the soft clinking of cutlery against porcelain as they all focused on their meals. She tried to keep her mind from spiraling into anxious thoughts about whatever conversation lay ahead, but it was impossible.
At the same time, she couldn’t deny how good the food was. Every bite was a reminder of just how different her life had become—luxury and dread served on the same plate.
A few minutes later, as she was finishing up, Mr. Whitlock placed his spoon down with a deliberate clink. He took a slow sip of water before speaking, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
“Janet and I have decided it’s high time we stop playing games and start treating this situation with the seriousness it demands.” He looked at her steadily, his gaze unreadable. “Not just to make you fit into Adelaide’s role but to truly make you her.”
She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry.
“We’ve done a lot of hand-holding these past two months,” he continued, his tone firm. “But after yesterday’s incident, it’s become clear that the real work needs to begin.”
He fell silent then, and Mrs. Whitlock took over seamlessly.
“We’re not saying this to overwhelm you,” she said, her voice softer but no less serious. “But you need to understand what’s at stake. Inside this house, we can shield you. Out there, you will be on your own—under scrutiny from people who would love nothing more than to uncover a scandal.”
Mr. Whitlock picked up where she left off. “We’ve been too lenient with you. But I’m sorry to say—that ends now. If you keep going at the pace you are, it’s only a matter of time before someone catches on. And if that happens, we all lose.”
She felt her stomach knot uncomfortably, but she kept her face neutral.
“In light of that,” he went on, “we’ve decided that for the next two months, you will have no outside contact. No visitors. No social events. We will be making an announcement later today that your wedding to Axel is being postponed.”
She blinked. Postponed?
“You’ll be moving to one of our vacation homes, where you will undergo intensive training. Every movement, every habit, every reaction—until there’s no distinction between you and Adelaide.”
She exhaled shakily. This was it. The real test.
Mrs. Whitlock leaned forward slightly. “We can teach you everything we know, but at the end of the day, Nina, this all comes down to you. Your mindset. Your discipline. Your commitment. If you break, if you waver—everything we’ve built crumbles.”
She had no words.
“Prepare yourself,” Mr. Whitlock said, his voice carrying a weight that settled heavily in her chest. “So that no matter what happens, you won’t back off.”
What was that supposed to mean? She wanted to ask, but before she could even open her mouth, he continued.
“Once you’re done eating, go upstairs and pack. You leave in two hours.” His words were clipped, efficient—like this was just another business decision.
Two hours? Her stomach tightened. That wasn’t enough time to process any of this, let alone get ready.
“You don’t have to worry about being alone,” he added, as if that was supposed to be comforting. “Our most trusted staff members are already there. They’ll ensure you have everything you need.”
Mrs. Whitlock, who had been watching her closely, softened just a little. “I can see you’re flustered.” Her tone had lost some of its earlier edge. “Do you have any questions?”
Questions? A hundred of them were screaming in her head.
Where exactly was she being sent? How long would this ‘training’ last? What did they mean by ‘no matter what happens’? And, most of all—what if she failed?
But she couldn’t ask any of that. She couldn’t let them see the full extent of her hesitation.
So instead, she swallowed hard, gripped her fork a little tighter, and asked the only thing she could manage.
“What should I pack?”
Mr. Whitlock barely hesitated. “That’s up to you. But I’ll tell you this—you already have everything you need waiting for you there. So if you’re going to pack anything, let it be something you truly can’t part with.”
She frowned slightly, turning his words over in her head. Something she couldn’t part with?
The realization hit almost instantly—she had nothing.
When she first arrived at the Whitlocks’ estate two months ago, she came with nothing but the clothes on her body. No sentimental trinkets, no cherished belongings. Everything she owned now had been provided for her, carefully curated to mold her into Adelaide Whitlock.
In other words, Mr. Whitlock was saying there was nothing for her to pack.
“Okay,” she murmured.
“Good.” He nodded once, final, as if that settled everything.