CHAPTER 3: A Face That Isn’t Mine
1315 Words
The woman in the photograph is smiling like she knows something I don’t.
And I hate her for it.
I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until my chest starts to hurt.
The frame is cold in my hands.
Too cold.
Like it hasn’t been touched in a long time.
Like no one dares to.
I stare at her face.
My face.
And something inside me shifts from confusion… to something sharper.
Because resemblance is one thing.
But this?
This is intentional.
I turn the frame over.
Nothing.
No note.
No date.
No explanation.
Just polished wood and silence.
I check the others.
Because of course there are others.
There are always more in houses like this-more proof, more memories, more ways to make sure nothing is ever truly forgotten.
One on the shelf.
One near the window.
One on the dresser.
Every single one-
her.
Different angles.
Different dresses.
Different settings.
Same face.
Same eyes.
Same mouth.
Mine.
My pulse starts to slow.
Not because I’m calmer.
Because I’m thinking now.
And thinking is better than fear.
Fear freezes.
Thinking survives.
I line the photographs across the bed like evidence.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself.
“Let’s stop pretending this is a coincidence.”
Because it’s not.
Not with Adrian.
Not with this house.
Not with the way everyone looked at me the moment I stepped inside.
I pick up the one with the terrace.
There’s something different about this one.
Subtle.
Easy to miss if you’re not paying attention.
She’s smiling.
But not fully.
Not freely.
Controlled.
Measured.
Like she knows she’s being watched.
My fingers tighten slightly around the frame.
“Who were you?” I murmur.
“And why do you look like me?”
“Because you look like her.”
The voice behind me is calm.
Controlled.
Too close.
I don’t flinch.
I refuse to.
But my grip tightens.
Just slightly.
I turn slowly.
Adrian Blackwood stands in the doorway.
Exactly where he shouldn’t be.
Exactly where I should have expected him.
“You move quietly,” I say.
“You don’t listen.”
His gaze drifts briefly to the photographs on the bed.
Then back to me.
“You weren’t told to go through her things.”
“I wasn’t told not to.”
A pause.
Then-
something almost like approval flickers in his eyes.
Gone too quickly to hold onto.
I lift the frame slightly. “Her name.”
“You know it.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
Silence stretches.
Then-
“Isabella.”
The name lands heavier this time.
Because now it’s not just a name.
It’s a person.
A presence.
A ghost that hasn’t left the room.
“Your wife,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Was.”
A beat.
“Yes.”
I watch him carefully.
For grief.
For anger.
For anything human.
There’s nothing.
“How did she die?” I ask.
His expression doesn’t change.
“That’s not relevant.”
“It is to me.”
“No,” he says quietly.
“It isn’t.”
The answer is too clean.
Too controlled.
Too practiced.
“She fell,” he adds after a moment.
“Where?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
I exhale slowly.
“So that’s it? She falls, she dies, and now you replace her with someone who looks exactly like her?”
His gaze sharpens.
“I didn’t replace her.”
“Then what is this?” I gesture to the room, the clothes, the photos, myself.
“A coincidence?”
“No.”
The word is firm.
Certain.
Dangerous.
“I chose you,” he says.
There it is again.
Chosen.
My pulse kicks.
“You keep saying that like it explains anything.”
“It does.”
“It explains nothing.”
“It explains everything.”
That should annoy me.
Instead-
it confirms something.
“You were looking for me,” I say slowly.
“Yes.”
“How long?”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
And that silence?
That silence is louder than anything he could say.
My stomach tightens.
“How long?” I repeat.
His eyes hold mine.
Unblinking.
“Before you knew you needed me.”
The words hit harder than they should.
Because they don’t just sound like control.
They sound like preparation.
“That’s not possible.”
“It is.”
“You’re lying.”
“I don’t lie.”
I almost laugh.
“Everyone lies.”
“Not about things that matter.”
My heart beats faster.
Not from fear.
From realization.
“You knew who I was,” I say.
“Yes.”
“You knew where to find me.”
“Yes.”
“You knew about my father.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
The room shifts.
Not physically.
But something inside it changes.
Something heavier.
Something darker.
“You set this up,” I whisper.
He doesn’t deny it.
“You made sure I needed the money.”
“No.”
That answer is immediate.
Sharp.
Different.
“I recognized the opportunity,” he corrects.
That’s worse.
My throat tightens.
“You’re insane.”
“Possibly.”
“You manipulated my life.”
“I guided it.”
“That’s not better.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
Silence crashes between us.
I look at him.
Really look at him.
At the calm.
At the control.
At the way he stands there like nothing about this is strange.
And suddenly-
I understand something.
“You’re not trying to replace her,” I say slowly.
His eyes narrow slightly.
“You’re trying to prove something.”
That lands.
I see it.
In the smallest shift of his expression.
“Prove what?” I push.
He takes a step closer.
Not enough to touch.
Enough to change the air.
“That you’re different.”
My breath catches.
“Or that I’m not,” I say.
His gaze darkens.
“Exactly.”
The word sends something sharp through me.
Because now-
this isn’t just about her.
It’s about me.
“What happens if I am?” I ask.
He studies me for a long moment.
Then says quietly-
“Then everything changes.”
“And if I’m not?”
The silence stretches.
Long.
Heavy.
Unforgiving.
Then-
“Then nothing does.”
My chest tightens.
I don’t like that answer.
I don’t like any of this.
I take a step back.
Then another.
Creating space.
Because something about the way he’s looking at me now-
feels less like control…
and more like expectation.
And I refuse to give him anything he expects.
“Then you’re wasting your time,” I say.
“Am I?”
I turn away.
Because if I keep looking at him, I might start seeing patterns I’m not ready to understand.
I reach for the nearest photograph.
Flip it over again.
Nothing.
Except-
A small engraving I didn’t notice before.
Hidden.
Subtle.
Almost invisible.
A.I.B.
My breath catches.
A.
I.
B.
Adrian.
Isabella.
Blackwood.
My fingers tighten.
Then something clicks.
Slow.
Quiet.
Terrifying.
Because that middle initial-
doesn’t stand for Isabella.
It stands for-
“Interesting,” Adrian murmurs behind me.
I freeze.
“Say it,” he says.
My voice comes out barely above a whisper.
“That’s not her name.”
Silence.
Then-
very softly-
“No,” Adrian says.
“It isn’t.”
I turn slowly.
My heart pounding.
My mind racing.
“Then who is she?” I ask.
Adrian looks at me-
not at the photo.
Not at the room.
Not at anything else.
Just me.
And says quietly-
“That depends.”
A pause.
“On what you remember.”
My breath stops.
Because I don’t remember her.
I don’t remember anything.
And suddenly-
that feels like the biggest problem of all.
- Writer
