Two hours later, she stood in front of the grand Whitlock mansion, Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock on either side of her. The weight of their presence pressed down on her, though neither of them spoke as she took slow, deliberate steps toward the sleek black car waiting in the driveway.
Martin stood by the open passenger door, his expression unreadable, and just as she reached for the handle, Mrs. Whitlock’s voice sliced through the air.
“Wait,” she said.
She spun around, her heart lurching with a flicker of hope. Maybe they’d changed their minds. Maybe this wasn’t happening. Maybe—
But then Mrs. Whitlock stepped forward and pulled her into an embrace. “You are going to be missed,” she murmured against her shoulder.
She swallowed hard, biting back the urge to scoff. Missed? It felt more like they were relieved to be sending her away. But she kept those thoughts to herself, giving nothing away.
She didn’t say a word—just nodded. After a brief moment, Mrs. Whitlock pulled back, her hands slipping away as if letting go of something fragile.
“Bye,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended.
She glanced at Mr. Whitlock. His lips were pressed into a firm, unreadable line. She didn’t linger on his face, but when she looked back at Mrs. Whitlock, the woman was smiling at her.
She wasn’t in the mood to smile. If anything, she felt like she was being exiled. But still, she forced her lips into something that resembled a smile, knowing it was expected of her.
With that, she turned and slid into the car. Martin shut the door with a soft thud. Before getting into the driver’s seat, he hesitated as Mr. Whitlock motioned him over. They exchanged a few low, hushed words—too quiet for her to make out. Whatever was said, it ended with Martin bowing his head slightly before making his way back to the car.
Moments later, the estate gates opened, and they drove off.
As the mansion faded into the distance, her thoughts churned restlessly. She thought about her life before all this—before Adelaide, before the Whitlocks, before she agreed to trade her name for someone else’s. Back then, she had been desperate. So desperate that when the opportunity came, she latched onto it without a second thought. And now? After two months of grueling training—being reshaped, remolded, and drilled into the perfect Adelaide Whitlock—they were telling her it still wasn’t enough. That she wasn’t enough.
Two months of living as someone else, and now she wasn’t even sure who she was anymore. Yet, somehow, she was still being punished for not doing it well enough.
She sighed, leaning her forehead against the cool glass of the car window. Thinking exhausted her, but she couldn’t stop. The world blurred past—grand houses, high-end boutiques, sleek establishments, all flickering by like postcards from a life she’d never belonged to. Maybe in another reality, she would have admired them. But in this one, they only reminded her of what she’d never had.
Her mind drifted back to the days when she worked three jobs just to chip away at her family’s debts—the ones that had existed long before her, as if they were some cursed inheritance. Back then, she’d see beautiful things—clothes, jewelry, even just a hot meal at a nice restaurant—but the price tags always shoved her away, mocking her. Every dollar she earned wasn’t really hers. It was just another payment toward an endless pit she hadn’t even dug.
She had cried herself to sleep more nights than she could count, suffocated by frustration. Sometimes, she lashed out at her parents, resenting them for bringing her into a world where they couldn’t even afford three decent meals a day. But the worst of it—the deepest cut—was when her little brother died. Not because of some cruel accident or fate, but because they couldn’t afford his medication.
She should have been angry at the world, at the unfairness of it all. But she wasn’t. She was angry that it hadn’t been her instead.
He got the escape she had prayed for. And she hated that he got to be the lucky one.
After that night, she told her parents she was done. Done living for everyone else. Done breaking her back just to hand over seventy-five percent of her earnings to the Fr family like some kind of tribute. Why did they get to leech off them every time? What if they just… stopped? Pretended they lost their jobs, disappeared off their radar? For all the talk about slavery being abolished, they were still shackled—just without the chains.
The fear in her parents’ eyes when she said that was almost pitiful. Almost. But she didn’t care anymore. She walked out on them without looking back.
And for the first time in her life, she kept her word.
That month, and the two after it, every cent she made was hers. She bought new clothes, indulged in little things she had always told herself were off-limits. She let herself exist—not just survive. It felt good. It felt right.
Then came the fourth month.
She was finishing up her night shift at the café when a group of men barged in, loud and obnoxious. The kind you couldn’t ignore even if you wanted to. Her stomach twisted the moment their leader locked eyes with her—scarred face, cold stare.
“Who goes by the name Nina here?” he asked, voice cutting through the café like a blade.
Fear gripped her, but her mouth refused to move.
Silence.
That was all it took for him to tilt his head slightly—a simple, unspoken command.
And then chaos erupted.
His men scattered through the café, overturning chairs, smashing flower vases, sending dishes crashing to the floor. Customers screamed. Workers ducked. Her heart pounded against her ribs, but she was frozen.
The café owner, a broad-shouldered man who had always carried himself with quiet authority, stepped forward. For a brief second, she thought maybe—just maybe—his presence would make them think twice.
But the gang leader didn’t hesitate. One slap. That was all it took.
The café owner hit the ground, out cold.
And just like that, the people she had worked alongside for months, the same ones who had laughed with her, shared late-night shifts with her, threw her under the bus without hesitation.
“She’s Nina!” someone blurted out, pointing straight at her.
And that was when she knew—she had been living on borrowed time.