The Gavrila mansion has forty-three rooms. I've been counting them methodically for three days, mapping my new prison—or kingdom, depending on perspective. The east wing alone contains a music room with a Steinway grand piano I apparently know how to play, though I never took a lesson in my previous life. My fingers remember what my mind does not.
It's these moments of cognitive dissonance that frighten me most—when Adelina's muscle memory overrides my consciousness, when I respond to conversations about people I've never met, when I catch myself absently sketching portraits with the skill of someone who's had years of private tutoring.
This morning, I stand before the floor-to-ceiling windows in my bedroom, watching gardeners trim the labyrinthine hedges. A light rain mists the glass, turning the world beyond into an impressionist painting.
"Miss Adelina?" A soft knock accompanies the voice of Marta, the housekeeper who's been assigned to me. "Mr. Nathan asked if you would join him for breakfast on the terrace."
My heart does that strange stutter it's developed whenever Nathan's name is mentioned. "The terrace? But it's raining."
"The covered terrace, Miss. He said you'd understand."
Of course. The covered terrace with the heat lamps and the view of the rose garden. Another memory that isn't mine surfaces unbidden: Nathan and I sharing hot chocolate there during winter storms, wrapped in matching throws, our childhood laughter creating clouds of vapor in the cold air.
"Tell him I'll be there shortly," I respond, turning from the window.
After Marta leaves, I face my closet—a room in itself—and select a casual sweater and jeans, deliberately avoiding the dresses Adelina seems to prefer. Small rebellions help me maintain some sense of self.
In the adjoining bathroom, I study my reflection. After three days, the face looking back remains a stranger's, though I'm beginning to notice details: a small birthmark behind the right ear, the way one eyebrow arches slightly higher than the other, a tiny scar on the chin that suggests a childhood fall. I wonder what memories lie behind that scar, what laughter or tears this body experienced before I inhabited it.
My hair falls in loose waves to the middle of my back. In my previous life, I'd never been able to grow it past my shoulders before splitting ends forced a trim. This body has been pampered its entire existence.
Fifteen minutes later, I navigate the grand staircase, still marveling at the opulence that surrounds me. The Gavrila fortune, I've gathered from overheard conversations and convenient newspapers, comes from technology, pharmaceuticals, and old money tied to European aristocracy. The kind of wealth that shapes governments rather than responds to them.
The covered terrace extends from the southern wing, enclosed in glass with iron framework that gives it the appearance of an elegant Victorian conservatory. Rain patters gently overhead as I approach, steeling myself for another encounter with the most confusing element of my new existence.
Nathan sits at a glass-topped table, reading something on a tablet. He's dressed in what I've come to recognize as his casual attire—dark jeans and a light gray cashmere sweater that probably costs more than a month's rent in my former life. His dark hair is slightly damp, suggesting an early morning run in the rain.
He looks up the moment I enter, as if sensing my presence. "You look better today."
"I feel better," I reply, taking the seat opposite him. The table is set with fresh pastries, fruit, and a carafe of coffee. "Though I'm still trying to... readjust."
His eyes hold mine for a beat too long. "Readjust to what, exactly?"
Always testing, always probing. In three days, I've learned that Nathan Gavrila misses nothing. Where our parents float above the details of daily life, Nathan observes everything with unnerving precision.
"To being well again," I deflect, reaching for a croissant. "Fevers can leave you disoriented."
"Hmm." He pours coffee into my cup—black with one sugar, exactly as I like it, though I never told him. "Mother and Father are in Geneva for the week. Something about the foundation's European branch."
"Both of them?" I can't hide my relief. Three fewer days of navigating their cold scrutiny.
A half-smile touches his lips. "Just us, I'm afraid. Catherine is in New York handling the merger."
Catherine—my eldest sister, whom I've yet to meet. Apparently, she's Nathan's full sibling while I'm... something else. The family dynamics remain unclear, but I've gleaned that the Gavrila household holds secrets beneath its polished surface.
"When will Catherine return?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
"Missing your sister already?" There's something sardonic in his tone that suggests complexity I don't yet understand. "She'll be back for the gala. Speaking of which—" He slides a slim folder across the table. "Your dress fitting is tomorrow. I took the liberty of selecting a few options."
I open the folder to find sketches from what appears to be a high-end designer. The dresses are elegant, undeniably beautiful, and probably cost more than a car. "This isn't necessary, I can choose my own clothes."
"Can you?" He takes a sip of coffee, watching me over the rim. "Your usual style consultant is Margot, but you fired her last month after a disagreement about necklines." There's amusement in his eyes. "You said she was trying to dress you like, and I quote, 'a virginal sacrifice to the god of corporate networking.'"
A startled laugh escapes me—it sounds like something I would say, even in my previous life. "Did I really?"
"You did. Quite loudly, in the middle of Bergdorf's." His expression softens with something like fondness. "You've always been the only one brave enough to speak your mind in this family."
I study him, this enigma of a brother who seems to know me better than I know myself. "And you've always been the one to clean up the messes afterward?"
"Someone has to." He leans forward slightly. "We protect each other, Adelina. That's what we do."
The intensity in his gaze makes me look away. Outside, the rain has strengthened, drumming against the glass ceiling. For a moment, we sit in silence broken only by the gentle percussion of water and the occasional clink of china.
"I had a dream last night," I say finally, surprising myself with the admission. "I was someone else, living a different life. It felt so real that when I woke up, I was confused about which reality was true."
Nathan goes very still, his coffee cup suspended halfway to his lips. "What kind of life?"
"Ordinary. Small apartment, struggling to pay bills, no family except a cat." I shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. "Just a strange dream."
He sets his cup down slowly, deliberately. "You used to have night terrors as a child. Do you remember? You'd wake up screaming that you were in the wrong body, the wrong life."
A chill runs through me. "I don't remember that."
"Mother and Father took you to specialists. They diagnosed stress, overactive imagination, attention-seeking behavior." His jaw tightens. "They medicated you until the 'episodes' stopped."
"When was this?"
"You were seven, eight perhaps." He reaches across the table, his hand covering mine. The touch sends that same unsettling warmth through my veins. "You stopped talking about it eventually, but sometimes I'd find you staring at your reflection like you were searching for someone else."
My throat tightens. Had the real Adelina experienced echoes of my consciousness even as a child? Had she somehow known another soul would one day inhabit her body? Or is this all an elaborate cosmic coincidence?
"Nathan," I begin, not knowing what I intend to say.
"You don't have to explain," he interrupts, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in that way that seems both comforting and inappropriately intimate. "Whatever you're going through, whoever you are or think you are—it doesn't change anything between us."
There's a weight to his words that suggests layers of meaning I can't decipher. I withdraw my hand, needing physical distance to think clearly.
"There's something I need to show you," he says after a moment. "When you're ready."
"What is it?"
He hesitates, uncharacteristic uncertainty crossing his features. "Something that might help you understand... certain things. About yourself. About us."
That word—us—hangs between us, loaded with implication. Before I can press further, the household manager appears at the terrace entrance.
"Mr. Gavrila, the call from Tokyo is waiting in your office."
Nathan sighs, a flicker of irritation crossing his face before his composed mask returns. "Tell them five minutes." After the manager departs, he turns back to me. "Business never sleeps. We'll continue this conversation later."
He stands, but instead of immediately leaving, he circles to my side of the table. I expect him to simply pass by, but he stops beside my chair, one hand coming to rest lightly on my shoulder.
"Whatever you discover, whatever you remember or don't remember," he says quietly, "trust that there has always been more between us than blood."
Before I can process his cryptic statement, he bends down and presses his lips to my forehead—a kiss that lingers just beyond the bounds of brotherly affection. His breath is warm against my skin, and I find myself frozen, caught between the instinct to pull away and a bewildering desire to lean into the contact.
When he straightens, his expression is unreadable, but something smolders in his eyes that makes my pulse quicken. Without another word, he walks away, leaving me with cooling coffee and more questions than when I arrived.
I remain on the terrace long after he's gone, listening to the rain and wondering what secrets lie in the gaps between what I know and what this family conceals. Whatever Nathan intends to show me feels pivotal, dangerous.
And despite every rational thought telling me to maintain my distance, to protect myself in this strange new existence, I find myself watching the door, waiting for his return, drawn toward whatever revelation lies ahead with an anticipation that feels perilously close to longing.