The house was too quiet.
Evelyn stood in the hallway just outside the bedroom, her bare feet sinking into thick carpet. The mansion stretched out around her like a dream she didn't remember having — every surface polished, every object placed with care. The kind of beauty that felt… unnatural. Like it had been designed for guests, not a home.
She looked over her shoulder. The bedroom door remained open. Her husband — Marcus, he had said his name was — had stepped away to take a call. "Just a quick business matter," he'd murmured with a kiss to her forehead. "Rest, love."
She didn't want to rest.
She wanted answers.
Every step down the hallway sent a chill down her spine. Portraits of people she didn't recognize lined the walls, their eyes following her. A painting of her — at least, she assumed it was her — hung at the end of the corridor. She was dressed in a flowing gown, frozen in a perfect smile. But the version of herself in the painting felt like a stranger. Too polished. Too posed.
Was that who she was before?
No. That woman looked like she had nothing to hide. Evelyn had secrets. She just didn't know what they were yet.
She wandered through the corridors, fingers trailing along the wood-paneled walls. A sweeping staircase curved down into a grand foyer — marble floors, a glimmering chandelier, the kind you only see in magazines. Everything about this place screamed wealth.
But not warmth.
She passed a door that was slightly ajar. Inside: a study. Shelves filled with books, a decanter of amber liquor on a side table. Papers stacked neatly on a desk. She tiptoed in, heart thudding. She had no idea what she was looking for — only that she had to look.
One drawer was locked. Of course it was.
She tried another.
Inside: passports. Hers. His. Except… there was something wrong. Her photo looked recent, but the issue date was only a few months ago. No stamps. No signs of travel. Was it a replacement? A forgery?
The sound of a door creaking upstairs made her slam the drawer shut. She slipped out of the study as quietly as she had entered, pulse racing.
She reached the bottom of the stairs just as Marcus appeared at the top.
"There you are," he said with a smile, but his eyes were sharp. "I thought you'd be resting."
She offered a sheepish grin. "I just… wanted to stretch my legs. This place is huge."
"It's home," he said. "Yours."
She nodded. Lied. "Right."
He descended the stairs slowly. "Come. Let me show you the garden. You used to love it out there."
She followed him, but not before glancing back toward the study. She hadn't imagined it. The way he looked at her just now — not like a husband watching over his wife.
More like a man guarding a secret.
---
Later that night...
She stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom.
The woman staring back at her had her eyes. Her mouth. Her bones. But none of it looked familiar. She leaned in closer, searching for something — a clue, a crack, anything. Something in the mirror felt off. Like the reflection wasn't just showing her face... but hiding something behind it.
There were no photos of her childhood in the house. No diaries. No digital trail. Everything she knew about herself now came from Marcus.
And something in her gut told her: he was lying.