Two weeks after the federal raid that never came
The morning light filtered through the lace curtains of their new safe house—a Victorian mansion in the hills that Sebastian had acquired through a network of shell companies so complex that even the FBI would need months to trace it back to them. Adelina sat at the antique writing desk in what used to be the library, surrounded by wedding magazines, fabric swatches, and three different laptops running her consciousness adaptation program.
"The lavender or the sage?" Adriana's voice carried from across the room where she stood before a wall of color samples, her arms laden with silk samples that shimmered in the natural light.
"Mmm," Adelina murmured absently, her attention split between a video call with Dr. Jennifer Hayes—a neurologist from Portland whose consciousness had been transferred into the body of a twenty-two-year-old ballet dancer—and a text thread with Nathan about venue security protocols.
"Adelina," Adriana's voice held a note of fond exasperation, "you're getting married in six weeks. The color scheme is not a minor detail."
"Sorry," Adelina looked up, rubbing her eyes. The digital clock in the corner of her screen showed she'd been working for four hours straight. "What were the options again?"
Dr. Hayes' voice came through the laptop speakers, tinged with the kind of exhaustion Adelina recognized in all consciousness transfer survivors. "I still can't feel the difference between hot and cold water. My spatial awareness is completely off. Yesterday I tried to sit down and missed the chair entirely."
"That's completely normal," Adelina assured her, making notes in her ever-expanding case file system. "Your consciousness is still mapping neural pathways to match your new body's proportions. The temperature sensitivity should return within another few weeks. Have you been doing the proprioception exercises I sent?"
"Every day, but—" Dr. Hayes' image froze as her connection stuttered.
"Technical difficulties are also normal," Adelina added when the video resumed. "Neural integration can interfere with fine motor control, which includes typing and device manipulation."
Adriana moved closer, perching on the edge of the desk with the fluid grace that still sometimes caught Adelina off guard. Even months after her own transfer, Adriana had adapted to her new body with an ease that spoke to both her resilience and the slightly better conditions of her procedure.
"You know," Adriana said quietly, "it's okay to take breaks from saving everyone else long enough to plan your own wedding."
"I'm not trying to save everyone," Adelina protested, even as she typed detailed notes about Dr. Hayes' progress. "I'm just—"
"Being the person you always were," Adriana finished. "Even before the transfer, Elena Vasquez was someone who put others' needs first. It's one of the things that makes you so good at this work. It's also what's going to burn you out if you're not careful."
Dr. Hayes had managed to stabilize her connection. "I should mention—there's something else. I've been having dreams. Not normal dreams, but... memories that aren't mine. The dancer whose body this was, she had a boyfriend. Sometimes I wake up missing him, even though I never met the man."
Adelina's fingers stilled on the keyboard. This was the complication she'd been dreading—the psychological integration issues that went beyond simple motor function and sensory adaptation.
"How often?" she asked carefully.
"Three, maybe four times a week. And it's not just romantic feelings. Yesterday I had an overwhelming craving for strawberry ice cream, which I've hated my entire life. But apparently, she loved it."
Adelina made more notes, her mind already formulating new therapy protocols. "Dr. Hayes, I'm going to send you some additional resources, including contact information for others who've experienced similar integration challenges. You're not losing yourself—you're navigating a complex neurological adjustment that no medical textbook has ever covered."
After ending the call, Adelina found Adriana watching her with an expression that mixed admiration and concern.
"Seventeen calls this week," Adriana observed. "And that's just the formal sessions. How many texts and emails are you fielding daily?"
"It's important work," Adelina said, but she could hear the defensiveness in her own voice.
"It is important work," Adriana agreed. "But so is this." She gestured toward the wedding planning materials. "So is taking care of yourself. So is letting yourself be happy."
The word 'happy' sat strangely in the air between them. Happiness felt like such a foreign concept, something she'd had to relearn from scratch along with everything else about her new existence.
"Besides," Adriana continued with forced lightness, "if you don't help me choose colors, Sebastian will probably suggest we go with 'corporate gray' and 'financial black.'"
As if summoned by his name, Sebastian appeared in the doorway, his sleeves rolled up and his tie loosened in a way that suggested he'd been dealing with particularly frustrating business matters.
"Did someone say something about corporate gray?" he asked, moving into the room with the measured steps of someone trying not to disturb important work.
"We're discussing wedding colors," Adriana explained, and Adelina didn't miss the way Sebastian's expression softened when he looked at her.
"Ah," Sebastian said diplomatically. "I'm sure whatever you choose will be... colorful."
Adriana laughed—the sound bright and genuine in a way that had become more common over the past few weeks. "Such enthusiasm. Such artistic vision."
"I have many talents," Sebastian replied dryly. "Color coordination has never been among them."
Adelina watched the easy banter between them with a mixture of happiness and concern. Their relationship had been developing slowly, carefully, with the kind of deliberate intention that characterized everything Sebastian did. But she'd noticed the moments when he pulled back, the carefully controlled distance he maintained whenever Adriana mentioned fragments of memories that weren't quite her own.
"How are the security arrangements coming along?" Adelina asked, changing the subject to safer ground.
Sebastian's expression shifted to professional focus. "Nathan's handling the venue side—discrete security that won't look like security. I'm coordinating with our legal team to ensure all documentation is airtight, just in case anyone tries to challenge the legitimacy of your identity for the marriage license."
The casual mention of legal challenges sent a familiar spike of anxiety through Adelina's chest. Even now, months after establishing her new identity, the fear of discovery never fully went away.
"Any word from the federal investigation?" she asked.
"Quiet for now," Sebastian replied, but his tone suggested this wasn't necessarily good news. "Too quiet, actually. Either they've moved on to other priorities, or they're building a case that takes time to develop."
Adelina's phone buzzed with a text from Nathan: Board meeting running long. Dinner at 8? I have venue updates.
She smiled despite her worries. Nathan had thrown himself into wedding planning with the same methodical thoroughness he applied to business acquisitions, treating every detail as a mission-critical component of their future happiness.
"He's been incredible," she said, showing the text to Adriana and Sebastian. "I never imagined someone could be so romantically practical."
"He's terrified," Sebastian observed with the bluntness that characterized his more honest moments. "Not of marrying you—he's wanted that since before he consciously admitted it to himself. He's terrified that something will happen to take it away from him again."
The insight was uncomfortably accurate. Adelina had noticed the extra security measures, the backup plans for backup plans, the way Nathan checked in with her hourly when they were apart.
"We all are," Adriana said quietly. "Happiness feels... fragile when you've lost everything once."
Her phone rang before Adelina could respond—Marcus calling from his afternoon classes with the private tutor Nathan had arranged.
"Hey," Marcus' voice came through with the slightly strained cheerfulness he'd been maintaining since the media attention had intensified. "Are you watching the news?"
"Should I be?" Adelina asked, though her stomach was already clenching with anticipation.
"Channel 7. They're running a story about 'America's Most Romantic Love Story' or something equally nauseating."
Adriana was already reaching for the remote, flipping to the local news station where a perfectly coiffed reporter stood outside what Adelina recognized as Nathan's office building.
"—fairy tale romance that has captured the nation's attention," the reporter was saying. "Nathan Sinclair, heir to the Sinclair business empire, is set to marry his fiancée Sarah Mitchell in what sources close to the couple describe as the wedding of the decade."
Adelina's blood ran cold. Sarah Mitchell. They were using her legal identity, the one that connected her to a woman who had died two years ago.
"The couple's love story reads like something from a romance novel," the reporter continued. "They met during Ms. Mitchell's recovery from a traumatic accident that left her with severe memory loss. Mr. Sinclair reportedly fell in love with her all over again, proving that true love transcends even the most challenging circumstances."
"Well," Sebastian said dryly, "that's one way to spin consciousness transfer."
But Adelina barely heard him. Her attention was fixed on the screen as the report shifted to showing file photos—Nathan at various business functions, looking polished and professional. And then a photo that made her heart stop entirely.
It was her. Not Sarah Mitchell, but Elena Vasquez, from her graduate school ID photo. She was looking directly at the camera with the confident smile of someone who had no idea what was coming, whose biggest worry was probably a thesis deadline.
"How did they get that?" Adriana breathed.
The reporter's voice continued: "Ms. Mitchell, formerly Dr. Elena Vasquez before her accident, was a promising neuroscience researcher whose work ironically focused on consciousness and identity. Sources suggest this personal experience with memory recovery has inspired her current work counseling other trauma survivors."
"They know," Adelina whispered, her hands beginning to shake. "They know who I really am."
Sebastian was already moving, pulling out his phone and speed-dialing what she assumed was Nathan's number. But before he could connect, Adelina's laptop chimed with an incoming video call.
The caller ID made her blood freeze: Dr. Elena Vasquez.
Her old name. Her old identity. Calling her on a secured line that only her consciousness transfer support network was supposed to have access to.
"Don't answer it," Sebastian said sharply, but Adelina's finger was already hovering over the accept button.
"If someone has access to my old identity and this contact information," she said slowly, "then they already know more than they should. The question is what they want."
Against Sebastian's protests, she accepted the call.
The face that appeared on her screen was her own—Elena Vasquez, exactly as she had looked two years ago, down to the small scar above her left eyebrow from a childhood accident. But the expression was wrong, the smile too cold, the eyes holding a calculating intelligence that felt entirely foreign.
"Hello, Adelina," the impossible image of herself said. "Or should I say Elena? It's time we had a conversation about the life you stole."