Semua Bab She died a wife, Returned a flame: Bab 11 - Bab 20

The air in the mansion is wrong this morning. Heavy. I can feel it in the way the maids whisper too quickly, in how the butler won’t meet my eyes. Something is brewing.And then Vanessa appears, gliding down the staircase with that satisfied little smirk.“Everyone. To the parlor. Now.” Her voice cuts through the hall, velvet laced with steel.We gather like sheep before slaughter; maids, footmen, even the chef with flour still clinging to his hands. Adrian is already waiting. His shoulders are squared, his eyes storm-dark.On the armchair sits a velvet box, lid thrown open. A diamond necklace lies inside, sparkling cruelly under the chandelier.Vanessa presses a hand to her bare throat, feigning distress so perfectly it could win her an award. “My necklace,” she gasps, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It’s been stolen.”A ripple moves through the staff. Adrian’s jaw clenches. His voice, when it comes, is sharp and merciless. “It was found,” he says, “beneath the mattress of one of

Adrian’s POVI tell myself to stay away from her. To let her fade into the background the way any maid should. That is what she is supposed to be, unseen, unheard, forgettable. But every time I pass through the halls, I catch myself searching. My gaze hunts for her without my permission, restless until it lands on her.It’s in the small things that she betrays me. The way she bends her head when she works, her braid slipping forward over her shoulder. The quiet confidence in her step, too sharp, too measured for a servant. And always that look in her eyes, a flicker of something that doesn’t belong here.Rachel.That’s what everyone calls her. That’s the name she answers with a bow of her head and that calm smile. But the name feels wrong in my mouth. It doesn’t cling to her the way it should. It doesn’t match the steadiness in her eyes or the way she holds her silence like a weapon. It doesn’t fit.Too calm. Too clever. Too much like someone I should already know.I began to test her

The envelope sits on my desk like it carries a thousand pounds.It shouldn’t. It’s only paper. Thin, fragile. A simple set of results, typed neatly in black ink. Nothing more. Nothing less.And yet, my hands don’t move. They hover, trembling with a tension I can’t name. For days, I’ve waited for this. Told myself this would silence the noise in my head. That a few words on a page would give me peace.I tear it open with a sharp rip, my chest tight.The words blur at first. My eyes skim once. Twice. Three times. Each time the meaning only grows colder, heavier.No match.Rachel Zane and Sheila Drake share no similarities. No link. No blood.I sink back into my chair, the silence pressing against my ears. For a long time, I stare at the paper as if staring long enough will make it change. But the words don’t move. They don’t bend. They sit there, mocking me.I should feel relieved. That’s what logic says. This should be the end of it. Rachel is not Sheila. The end.But my heart refuses.

I told myself I wasn’t following her.That it was coincidence.But every time I stepped into a room, Rachel was there dusting the bookshelves, arranging flowers, carrying tea. And every time her presence hit me like a jolt, I stayed longer than I should have. My eyes traced her movements, memorized her smallest gestures, as if the truth I craved lived in the flick of her hand or the quiver of her mouth.Vanessa noticed.“Adrian,” she said one afternoon, her manicured fingers sliding over my arm as I stood watching Rachel polish the grand piano. “You’re distracted. You’ve been… restless lately. Is something wrong?”“Nothing,” I muttered, not looking away.Vanessa’s hand tightened. “Then why do you keep staring at the help?”Her voice was low, sharp, edged with the panic of a woman who felt her grip slipping. I finally turned to her, narrowing my eyes. “Don’t start.”She flinched, lips pressing into a thin line, but didn’t back down. “You’re my husband, Adrian. I have the right to noti

Adrian’s POVThe house is quiet, but my mind is loud.I pace the study long after the rest of the staff have gone to bed. The lamps burn low, shadows stretching long across the walls, whispering in the corners. And still, her face refuses to leave me. Rachel.Her eyes. Her voice. The way she looked at me earlier when I caught her wrist, as though she wanted to run and stay all at once.Sheila.No. Not Sheila. Rachel. But the line between them blurs until I can’t tell which name to say, which ghost I’m chasing.I pour myself another drink, amber fire sloshing into the glass. It doesn’t help. Nothing does. I can still feel her beneath my hand, her pulse frantic where my fingers pressed. I can still hear her sharp intake of breath when I whispered what I shouldn’t have.Why does she do this to me? Why won’t she let me rest?I slam the glass down on the desk and push to my feet. My body moves before my mind can catch up, carrying me down the corridor, past portraits and closed doors, unti