I died on a Tuesday.
I remember it clearly: the screech of tires, the millisecond of weightlessness, then nothing but darkness. Death was supposed to be permanent.
So why am I breathing?
My eyelids flutter open to a ceiling of intricate crown molding and a crystal chandelier that probably costs more than my former apartment's annual rent. Sunlight streams through gossamer curtains, casting the room in a golden glow. This isn't a hospital room. This isn't anywhere I recognize.
I try to sit up, but my body feels wrong—lighter, smaller, with long slender fingers that don't bear the calluses from years of waitressing and typing. These hands have never worked a day in their life.
"Miss Adelina? You're finally awake."
A middle-aged woman in a crisp uniform approaches the bed, relief evident in her eyes. She speaks with an accent I can't place, her movements efficient as she presses a cool palm against my forehead.
"The fever has broken. Thank goodness. The family has been so worried."
Family? My parents died years ago. I lived alone with my cat, Ferdinand.
"Where am I?" My voice emerges higher, softer than I remember.
The woman—a housekeeper? nurse?—gives me a concerned look. "You're home, Miss. Gavrila Estate. You've been delirious with fever for three days."
Gavrila. The name means nothing to me, yet apparently, it's who I am now.
"I'll inform the family you're awake. They'll want to see you immediately." She hurries from the room before I can protest.
Left alone, I force my shaking legs over the edge of the bed. The mirror across the room reflects a stranger: a young woman, perhaps twenty, with alabaster skin and waves of chestnut hair falling past her shoulders. Her—my—eyes are a striking amber, wide with confusion and fear.
I'm not me anymore. The reality crashes like a wave. I remember dying, remember the impact, remember my name—my real name—but that's irrelevant now. Somehow, impossibly, I've been reborn as someone else.
The door swings open without warning. A tall, broad-shouldered man strides in, his presence immediately commanding the space. Dark hair, precisely cut, frames a face that belongs on magazine covers—all sharp angles and perfect symmetry. But it's his eyes that arrest me: steel gray and penetrating, like they could strip away pretense with a single glance.
He moves to my bedside in three long strides, and I shrink back instinctively.
"Adelina." Just one word, my apparent name, but the relief in it is palpable. His expression remains mostly neutral, but something in his jaw unclenches. "You had us concerned."
Behind him, two more figures enter: an older man with silver-streaked dark hair and the same steely eyes, his posture military-straight; and a elegant woman with a carefully composed face that suggests regular cosmetic maintenance.
"Mother, Father, Nathan," I say automatically, the words rising from somewhere beyond my conscious mind—as if this body remembers what my transplanted soul does not.
The older man—Father—nods curtly. "The doctor said the fever would pass. Drama was unnecessary." His voice is clipped, devoid of the worry one might expect from a parent whose child has been ill for days.
"Richard," Mother chides softly, though her own concern seems performative as she maintains a careful distance from the bed. "Adelina, darling, we're pleased to see you recovering. The gala is next weekend, and your absence would have been noted."
A gala. Of course that's what matters. I'm beginning to understand the dynamics here.
"I'm feeling much better," I lie, having no baseline for how Adelina Gavrila normally feels. "Just a bit disoriented."
"Understandable," Nathan—my brother, apparently—says. His voice is deeper than I expected, resonant. Unlike our parents, he sits on the edge of my bed, uninvited. "You were delirious, talking nonsense about another life."
My heart stutters. "Was I?"
His eyes narrow slightly. "You don't remember?"
I force a smile. "Fever dreams, I suppose."
Mother adjusts her pearl necklace. "Well, we have the Hendersons for dinner. Richard, we should let Adelina rest." She doesn't wait for agreement, simply exits with the expectation of being followed.
Father gives me a curt nod. "Don't make a habit of this, Adelina. Illness is inconvenient." He follows Mother out, leaving me alone with Nathan.
The silence stretches between us. I should feel comfortable with my brother, but every instinct tells me he's dangerous—not physically, but in ways harder to define. His presence is too intense, too focused.
"You don't have to pretend with me," he says finally, voice lowered. "The things you said during your fever..."
I swallow hard. "What did I say?"
His hand moves to mine, engulfing it completely. The touch sends an unexpected jolt through me—this body's reaction, not mine, I tell myself.
"You spoke about dying. About being someone else." His thumb traces circles on my palm, an intimate gesture that seems at odds with his imposing presence. "About waking up in a stranger's life."
My breath catches. "Fever makes people say strange things."
Nathan studies me, and I realize he's still holding my hand. "You've always been a terrible liar, Adelina." There's something almost fond in the observation. "Even as a child."
I have no memory of being a child in this life. The thought brings a wave of vertigo.
"Nathan, I—"
"Rest," he cuts me off, finally releasing my hand. "Whatever's happening, whatever you're going through—you don't have to face it alone."
As he stands, something shifts in his expression—a softening around the eyes, a vulnerability at odds with his otherwise impenetrable demeanor. For a moment, he's not the intimidating stranger I woke up to find as my brother, but something else entirely.
He reaches out, hesitates, then gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture lingers a beat too long, his fingertips brushing my cheek in a way that seems unconscious.
"I've always protected you," he says, voice rough with an emotion I can't identify. "That won't change."
Something in the intensity of his gaze makes me acutely aware of myself—of this new body, this new reality. The way he looks at me doesn't feel entirely brotherly, but perhaps that's my disorientation speaking. After all, what do I know about having a brother? In my previous life, I was an only child.
After he leaves, I sink back against the pillows, mind racing. Outside my window spreads a manicured garden that looks like it requires a team of full-time staff. Beyond that, the silhouette of a city skyline I don't recognize. A life of staggering privilege surrounds me, but all I feel is hollow.
I'm Adelina Gavrila now. Daughter of wealth and privilege. Sister to a man whose eyes hold secrets and whose touch lingers too long.
And somewhere deep inside this borrowed body, I carry the memory of another life—one that ended on a rainy Tuesday beneath the wheels of a delivery truck.
Whatever game the universe is playing with me, I have no choice but to learn the rules. Starting with understanding why, of all the people in this strange new family, only Nathan seems to look at me like he sees the stranger behind Adelina's eyes.
Only Nathan seems to look at me like he's been waiting for me to arrive.