Chapter 4 – The First Dinner
The next morning I woke up with red eyes and a headache.
I had cried myself to sleep after seeing the wall of photos in Adrian's office. The image of my own picture, torn in half, kept replaying in my mind. *Same eyes.* Those two words were written under it in his handwriting, like a label on a specimen.
I got out of bed, washed my face with cold water, and tried to look normal. I brushed my hair, put on a simple black sweater and jeans, and went to the kitchen to make coffee.
At 7:03 a.m. Adrian came out of his bedroom.
He was already in his suit, tie knotted perfectly, hair combed back. He looked like the man I had seen in the lawyer's office — calm, controlled, untouchable.
He stopped when he saw me.
"Good morning," I said.
He nodded. "Morning."
He poured coffee, drank it standing by the counter, and headed for the door.
"Adrian," I said before he could leave.
He paused, hand on the doorknob.
"I'm sorry I went into your office yesterday."
He didn't say anything for a few seconds. Then, "Don't do it again."
The door closed behind him.
I stood in the kitchen, coffee cooling in my cup, and felt the familiar ache in my chest. I was his wife on paper, but in reality I was a trespasser in his home.
I spent the day cleaning, organizing the empty cabinets, folding the three hangers in my closet. I tried to make the guest room feel like mine, but it still felt like a hotel room.
Around 4 p.m. I decided to do something.
I opened the fridge, took out chicken, rice, onions, tomatoes, and garlic. I had learned to cook from my mother when I was 14, after she got sick. Cooking was the only thing that made me feel useful.
I chopped, sautéed, seasoned. The smell of garlic and cumin filled the apartment — the first real smell that wasn't just expensive soap and leather.
At 7 p.m. the door opened.
Adrian walked in, took off his coat, and stopped when he saw the table.
I had set two plates, two glasses of water, a small bowl of salad. The chicken was golden brown, the rice fluffy with vermicelli.
"You cooked," he said.
I felt my cheeks get warm. "I thought… we could eat together."
He didn't answer right away. He hung his coat, washed his hands, and sat down at the table.
I sat across from him.
For the first ten minutes, neither of us spoke. The only sounds were the clink of forks on plates and the distant traffic 27 floors below.
The food was good. I could tell by the way he ate a second serving of rice.
When we finished, I started clearing the plates.
"Who is the woman in the photo?" I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.
Adrian stopped.
He set his fork down slowly, looked at me, and his expression went flat.
"That's none of your concern," he said.
I nodded and took the plates to the sink. My hands were shaking.
I started washing the dishes, trying to keep my face neutral.
After a minute, I heard him say, "Thank you for the food."
I turned around.
He was looking at me, not at his plate.
"You're welcome," I said.
It was the first kind thing he'd said to me since I moved in.
That night I slept a little better.
The next day followed the same pattern. Adrian left at 7 a.m., I cleaned, I cooked lunch for myself, I waited.
At 8:15 p.m. he came home.
I had made moussaka.
He sat at the table, ate, didn't comment.
I asked, "How was your day?"
He said, "Fine."
I asked, "Do you want tea?"
He said, "No."
I went to bed at 10 p.m.
On the third day, I found the scarf.
I was vacuuming the living room around 2 p.m. when I saw a flash of light blue on the arm of the couch.
I picked it up.
It was a scarf, soft cashmere, light blue, folded neatly.
It wasn't mine. I only owned the black sweater I was wearing.
I lifted it to my nose.
It smelled faintly of perfume — light, floral, expensive.
I held it in my hands and felt that ache again, right behind my ribs.
When Adrian came home at 8:10 p.m., I was sitting on the couch holding the scarf.
"Is this yours?" I asked as he walked in.
He froze in the doorway.
His eyes locked on the scarf, and for the first time I saw something crack in his expression.
Pain. Raw and sudden.
"Put it back," he said, his voice low.
"Who does it belong to?" I asked, standing up.
He walked past me, took the scarf from my hands very carefully, like it was made of glass, 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.
I went to my room and sat on the bed, the scarf's scent still in my nose.
I opened my phone and searched "Nadia Cole."
Nothing came up.
I tried "Nadia [Last Name]."
Nothing.
I tried "missing woman Nadia."
A few old news articles from two years ago appeared — a 28-year-old woman named Nadia Hassan, reported missing in Cairo. No photo in the article.
My heart was pounding.
Nadia Hassan.
The name sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it.
I closed my phone.
I didn't sleep that night.
I kept thinking about the scarf, about the photo, about the name.
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 10:17 a.m. his phone buzzed on the kitchen counter while I was folding the laundry he'd left in the basket.
The screen lit up: *Mom calling.*
I hesitated.
I shouldn't answer.
But what if it was an emergency? What if something happened to her?
I picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"Adrian, darling, are you coming Sunday for lunch?" a woman's voice said, warm and motherly.
I froze. "Uh… this is Lila."
There was a pause on the other end.
"Oh," the woman said. Her tone shifted, became cooler, more guarded. "You must be the new wife."
"I… yes, I just moved in."
There was another pause.
"She looks like her, doesn't she?" the woman said quietly, almost to herself.
My blood went cold. "Who?"
Another pause.
"You'll understand soon, dear."
She hung up.
I stood there holding the phone, my heart pounding so hard I thought Adrian's neighbors could hear it.
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 11:03 p.m.
He smelled like alcohol.
He rarely drank — in the three nights he'd been home, I had never smelled alcohol on him.
He walked straight to the kitchen, opened the cabinet, took out a bottle of whiskey and a glass, poured himself a drink, and drank it in one go.
I stood in the doorway of the kitchen. "Are you okay?"
He looked at me, his eyes glassy, his face flushed.
"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, his voice softer now. "The same shape. Same depth."
"Who is she?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
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 3:14 p.m. when I saw it — the office door was unlocked.
The knob was turned, the door was pulled to but not latched.
My curiosity was louder than my fear.
I opened the door.
The room was a study.
Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with books — mostly business, some history, a few novels.
There was a large wooden desk, a leather chair, a computer that was turned off.
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, her hair blowing in the wind.
There was a photo of her at a restaurant, holding a glass of wine and laughing.
There was a photo of her at a party, arm linked with Adrian's, both of them smiling.
There was a photo of her in the park, sitting on the grass, head resting on Adrian's shoulder.
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.
I was wearing the brown jacket, my hair in a ponytail, my face pale and worried.
Under it, in Adrian's handwriting, black ink on the white mat: *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, his eyes dark with anger.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
I couldn't answer. My throat was dry.
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, tears filling my eyes.
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 with the sleeve of my sweater 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.
Even if it was none of my concern.
Because if I was going to live in this apartment for three years, I needed to know whose shadow I was living in.