Chapter 3 – The Photograph
I didn't sleep at all.
I sat on the edge of the guest bed with the blanket wrapped around me, staring at the closed door of Adrian's office. The hallway was dark, the city lights outside the window were dimming as morning approached, and all I could think about was the woman in the photograph.
Her eyes.
They were exactly like mine.
Dark brown, almond-shaped, with that same tired look I see in the mirror every morning.
I kept asking myself the same questions over and over.
Who is she?
Why is her photo labeled MISSING?
Why does she look so much like me?
At 6:30 a.m. I finally got up, washed my face, and made myself a cup of tea. I tried to act normal, tried to push the image of the photo out of my mind.
At 7:00 a.m. Adrian came out of his bedroom.
He was already dressed in a dark gray suit, his hair combed, his face clean-shaven. He looked like a man who had slept well.
He stopped when he saw me at the kitchen counter.
"Good morning," I said, trying to sound casual.
He nodded. "Morning."
He poured himself a cup of coffee, drank it in two sips, and headed for the door.
"Have a good day," I said.
He paused at the door, looked back at me, and said, "Don't go in my office."
Then he left.
I stood there holding my cup of tea, feeling like I had been slapped.
He didn't say goodbye. He didn't ask how I slept. He just reminded me of the rule.
I spent the morning cleaning the apartment.
I wiped the kitchen counters, vacuumed the living room, folded the blankets on the couch. I was trying to keep busy so I wouldn't think about the photo.
At 11 a.m. my phone rang. It was the hospital.
"Miss Ahmed, your father has been transferred. He's in Room 412. You can visit him anytime."
Tears filled my eyes. "Thank you."
I wanted to go see him right away, but I didn't have money for a taxi. The 50,000 pounds Adrian was supposed to give me hadn't arrived yet.
I sat on the couch and waited.
At 1 p.m. there was a knock on the door.
I opened it to find a delivery man holding a black envelope.
"For Mrs. Cole," he said.
I took the envelope, closed the door, and opened it.
Inside was a bank card and a small note in Adrian's handwriting:
*ATM PIN: 2410. Use it for anything you need.*
2410.
My birthday.
I felt a strange chill run down my spine.
I went to the nearest ATM, inserted the card, entered the PIN, and saw the balance: 50,000 pounds.
I withdrew 2,000, took a taxi to the hospital, and went to see my father.
He was in a private room, in a clean bed, with an IV in his arm and a monitor beeping beside him.
He looked pale, but he was awake.
"Lila," he said weakly when he saw me.
"Baba," I said, rushing to his side and holding his hand. "You're okay."
"I'm okay now," he said, squeezing my hand. "What happened? How did you get the money?"
I hesitated. I didn't want to tell him the truth.
"I borrowed it from a friend," I said.
He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. "Thank you, habibti."
I stayed with him for two hours, talking, holding his hand, watching him sleep.
When I got back to the apartment at 5 p.m., Adrian wasn't home yet.
I made myself some rice and chicken, ate alone at the kitchen counter, and cleaned up.
At 8:47 p.m. the door opened.
Adrian walked in, took off his coat, and saw the dinner I had made.
"You cooked," he said.
"I thought… we could eat together," I said.
He didn't answer. He just sat down at the table.
We ate in silence.
I kept waiting for him to say something, to ask me about my day, to say anything at all. He didn't.
When we finished eating, I cleared the plates and started washing them.
"Who is the woman in the photo?" I asked quietly.
Adrian stopped eating.
He looked at me, his expression unreadable.
"That's none of your concern," he said.
I nodded and kept washing the dishes.
After a few seconds, he said, "Thank you for the food."
It was the first kind thing he had said to me.
I went to bed that night feeling a little less lonely.
The next day was the same.
Adrian left at 7 a.m., came back at 8 p.m., we ate dinner in silence, he went to his office, I went to my room.
On the third day, I found something.
I was cleaning the living room when I saw a light blue scarf on the couch.
It wasn't mine.
I picked it up. It was soft, expensive, and it smelled faintly of perfume — a light floral scent.
I held it in my hands and felt a strange ache in my chest.
When Adrian came home that evening, I was holding the scarf.
"Is this yours?" I asked.
He froze.
His eyes locked on the scarf, and for the first time since I met him, I saw emotion in them.
Pain.
"Put it back," he said, his voice low.
"Who does it belong to?" I asked.
He walked past me, took the scarf from my hands, and went into his office, closing the door.
I heard him say one word, almost a whisper: "Nadia."
I didn't know who Nadia was.
But I knew I looked like her.
That night I couldn't sleep again.
I kept thinking about the scarf, about the photo, about the name Nadia.
Was she his wife?
Was she dead?
Did she leave him?
Why did he choose me?
The next morning, Adrian left at 7 a.m. as usual.
At 10 a.m. his phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.
I was folding laundry and almost ignored it.
The screen lit up: *Mom calling.*
I hesitated.
I shouldn't answer.
But what if it was important?
I picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"Adrian, darling, are you coming Sunday?" a woman's voice said warmly.
I froze. "Uh… this is Lila."
There was a pause on the other end.
"Oh," the woman said. Her voice changed, became cooler. "You must be the new wife."
"I… yes, I just moved in."
"She looks like her, doesn't she?" the woman said quietly.
My blood went cold. "Who?"
Another pause.
"You'll understand soon, dear."
She hung up.
I stood there holding the phone, my heart pounding.
She looks like her.
Who is her?
I put the phone down and went to sit on the couch.
I felt like I was a character in a story I didn't know the ending of.
That night, Adrian came home at 11 p.m.
He smelled like alcohol.
He rarely drank.
He walked straight to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and drank it in one go.
I stood in the doorway of the kitchen. "Are you okay?"
He looked at me, his eyes glassy.
"You have her eyes," he said.
I didn't know what to say.
He poured himself another glass.
"She had the same color," he said. "The same shape."
"Who is she?" I asked.
He set the glass down hard on the counter. "Don't."
"Adrian—"
"Don't ask about her."
His voice was sharp, but his eyes were hurting.
He drank the second glass in one go, put the glass in the sink, and went to his bedroom, closing the door.
I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the empty glass.
I was jealous of a woman I had never met.
The next day, I told myself I wouldn't go into his office.
I was cleaning the hallway at 3 p.m. when I saw it — the office door was unlocked.
My curiosity was louder than my fear.
I opened the door.
The room was a study.
Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with books.
There was a large wooden desk, a leather chair, a computer.
And on the wall — dozens of photos.
All of the same woman.
Nadia.
In every picture, she was smiling, laughing, looking at Adrian like he was her whole world.
There were photos of her at the beach, at a restaurant, at a party, in the park.
And in the center of the wall was one photo of me.
It was taken without my knowledge, outside the lawyer's office the day I signed the contract.
Under it, in Adrian's handwriting: *Same eyes.*
I felt sick to my stomach.
I was standing there, staring at the wall, when I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned around.
Adrian was standing in the doorway, his face pale.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
I couldn't answer.
He walked into the room, walked straight to the photo of me, took it off the wall, and tore it in half.
"Get out," he said.
I left the room, my hands shaking.
I went to my room and closed the door.
I sat on the bed, my heart racing.
He had a photo of me on his wall.
He had torn it.
He was angry that I saw it.
I pulled my knees to my chest and cried.
I wasn't his wife.
I was a replacement.
A replacement for Nadia.
A woman who was missing.
A woman who looked exactly like me.
I wiped my tears and made a decision.
I would find out who Nadia was.
I would find out what happened to her.
Even if Adrian didn't want me to know.