Miralle learned quickly that the house had its own rhythm.
It wasn't loud. It didn't rush. People moved when they were needed and disappeared when they weren't. Doors closed without sound. Conversations ended the moment they lost purpose.
She spent the morning doing nothing that looked like rest.
A woman brought clothes and left. Another asked what she preferred for lunch without waiting for an answer. Someone replaced the phone on the bedside table with a newer one, identical except for the absence of scratches.
Miralle noticed everything. She didn't comment on any of it.
Adrian didn't appear until afternoon.
He entered the room without announcing himself, jacket already on, movements economical. He stopped when he saw her standing by the window.
"You're not packed," he said.
"I wasn't told to be," Miralle replied.
He nodded once. "We're not leaving the city."
"That wasn't my concern."
He looked at her then, more directly than he had all day. "What was?"
"That today would involve pretending again."
Adrian adjusted his cufflinks. "It will."
She waited.
"This time," he added, "you'll speak."
They drove to a restaurant Miralle would never have chosen for herself. Not because it was expensive — though it was — but because it felt like a place where decisions were made quietly, without witnesses.
Inside, the lighting was deliberate. Soft enough to flatter. Bright enough to observe.
A man and a woman were already seated. The man stood when Adrian approached. The woman did not.
"Adrian," the man said, smiling. "You're late."
"I'm not," Adrian replied. "You're early."
Introductions followed.
Miralle noted how the woman looked at her. Not curious. Measuring. As if deciding whether Miralle was temporary.
They sat.
Conversation moved carefully. Business disguised as pleasantries. Adrian spoke little. When he did, people listened.
At one point, the woman turned to Miralle. "And you," she said. "What do you do?"
Miralle didn't answer immediately.
Adrian didn't step in.
"I'm learning," Miralle said finally.
The woman smiled. "Learning what?"
"How to be useful."
Silence followed. Not awkward. Just noticeable.
The man laughed lightly, as if to soften the moment. "She's honest."
Adrian's mouth curved slightly. Not approval. Recognition.
Later, as plates were cleared and attention shifted, Miralle excused herself to the restroom. She washed her hands slowly, grounding herself in the cold water.
When she stepped back into the hallway, someone was waiting.
The woman from the table.
"You don't look like what I expected," she said.
Miralle met her gaze. "What did you expect?"
"Someone quieter," the woman replied. "More grateful."
Miralle considered that. "I am quiet."
The woman smiled again. This time it reached her eyes. "Yes," she said. "That's what makes you interesting."
When Miralle returned to the table, Adrian looked at her briefly. A question without words.
"She thinks I'm interesting," Miralle said.
Adrian nodded. "That means she doesn't trust you yet."
On the drive back, Miralle leaned her head against the window.
"You didn't correct anything I said," she noted.
"You didn't say anything incorrect."
"I could have."
"Yes."
"Would you have stopped me?"
Adrian watched the road. "Only if it mattered."
"And if it had?"
"Then you wouldn't be here."
She absorbed that in silence.
Back at the house, the staff had prepared dinner. Adrian didn't stay.
"I have work," he said, already halfway out of the room.
"Of course you do," Miralle replied.
He paused.
"You did well today," Adrian said. "You didn't overplay your position."
"Do people usually?"
"They either try too hard," he said, "or not at all."
"And what did I do?"
"You stayed where you were placed."
That wasn't a compliment. She didn't take it as one.
Later that night, Miralle sat on the bed with her phone in her hand. No missed calls. No messages. Her old life existed somewhere else now, moving forward without her.
She thought about the woman at dinner. The way her questions had been shaped like observations.
People were already forming opinions.
She wasn't invisible anymore.
That should have felt like progress.
Instead, it felt like pressure.
A knock came at the door. This time, Adrian waited for her to answer.
"Yes?" she said.
He stepped inside but didn't close the door.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we attend something less controlled."
Miralle raised an eyebrow. "Less controlled than today?"
"Yes."
"That sounds intentional."
"It is."
She set the phone down. "Am I being tested?"
Adrian didn't answer right away.
"They'll push," he said instead. "They'll look for cracks. If they find one, they'll use it."
"And if they don't?"
"They'll try harder."
Miralle nodded. "And you?"
"I'll watch," Adrian replied.
She held his gaze. "If I fail?"
Adrian's expression didn't change. "Then I'll adjust."
She didn't like how flexible that sounded.
When he left, Miralle locked the door. Not because she thought it would help. Because it made her feel like she had done something.
She lay down without turning off the light.
Tomorrow wouldn't be about pretending.
It would be about endurance.
And for the first time since the envelope appeared on her desk, Miralle understood the shape of the risk she had taken.
Being noticed was dangerous.
But being remembered—
That was worse.