A faint knock stirred Evelyn from sleep. For a moment, she forgot where she was—the heavy drapes cast the room in shadow, and the silence was too profound, too unfamiliar. The sheets were softer than anything she had ever known, the bed too vast for just one person.
Then, the events of the previous day came crashing down.
Everthorne Manor. The wedding. Nathaniel.
Another knock, this time firmer.
"Your Grace?" A voice, soft yet practiced, filtered through the heavy doors. "It is past eight. The Duke has instructed that you be attended to."
Evelyn swallowed, her throat dry. "Come in."
The doors creaked open, and a young woman in a crisp black-and-white uniform stepped inside, carrying a silver tray. Her dark hair was neatly pinned beneath a modest cap, and her pale blue eyes flickered to Evelyn's face with barely concealed curiosity.
"I am Clara, Your Grace. I have been assigned as your personal maid." She set the tray on the nearby vanity, bowing her head. "Would you like your tea first, or shall I draw your bath?"
Evelyn sat up slowly, the silk sheets pooling around her waist. "Tea, please."
Clara moved with quiet efficiency, pouring steaming amber liquid into a delicate porcelain cup. The scent of bergamot and honey drifted through the air as she handed it over.
Evelyn took a careful sip, savoring the warmth.
Evelyn set down the cup. "Have you served the Duke long?"
Clara's hands stilled briefly before she resumed arranging the bathing linens. "Since I was thirteen, Your Grace."
Evelyn nodded, deciding not to press further.
"The bath is ready," Clara said, stepping aside.
Evelyn slipped from the bed, allowing Clara to guide her to the adjoining chamber where a claw-footed tub steamed in the morning light. She let the maid help her undress, but as her bare skin met the warm water, a shiver ran through her.
It wasn't the heat.
It was the weight of a stolen life pressing down on her, seeping into her bones.
As Evelyn soaked in the warmth of the bath, she let her head rest against the porcelain edge, eyes half-lidded. The scent of lavender and rose oil curled in the steam, meant to soothe, but her mind remained restless.
Bastian told me she became a countess at an early age because she lost her parents… She went through a lot, and that's why she grew up to be a tough noblewoman.
Eleanor Whitmore. The woman whose life Evelyn had stepped into.
Although she had spent six months poring over every detail she could find—her mannerisms, her speech, the way she carried herself with an air of effortless grace—Evelyn knew she could never be Eleanor. Not truly.
I can mimic her, wear her face like a mask, but I will never be her.
A bitter thought. A dangerous one.
Clara returned, carrying a fresh linen towel. "Shall I assist you, Your Grace?"
Evelyn inhaled deeply, willing herself back to the present. "Yes."
She let the maid wrap her in the plush fabric, the warmth of the bath quickly fading as cool morning air kissed her damp skin.
Dressed in layers of silk and lace, Evelyn stood before the mirror as Clara fastened the final buttons. She gazed at her reflection, the woman in the mirror felt both familiar and foreign. Her silver hair, cascading in soft waves over her shoulders, caught the morning light like spun moonlight. Her golden eyes—Eleanor's eyes—stared back at her, steady yet unreadable.
No matter how much I study her, I will never truly be her.
She lifted a hand to her face, tracing the elegant curve of her cheekbone, the delicate slope of her nose. Every feature was Eleanor's, yet the soul behind them was not.
Clara stepped back after fastening the last button of her gown. "You look radiant, Your Grace."
Evelyn managed a small smile. "Thank you, Clara."
Radiant. Elegant. A perfect duchess.
And yet, deep inside, she wondered—how long before someone looked past the illusion and saw her for what she truly was? A thief wearing another woman's life.
Evelyn closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, steadying herself. She had no choice but to play this role, to inhabit Eleanor Whitmore's skin as if it were her own.
When she opened her eyes again, the hesitation had vanished.
Clara, ever perceptive, lowered her gaze. "Would you like me to prepare anything else, Your Grace?"
Evelyn smoothed her hands over the fine silk of her gown. "No. That will be all."
As Clara curtsied and left the room, Evelyn turned back to the mirror.
If she was to survive, she had to be flawless. No slip-ups. No doubts.
Evelyn stepped out of her chambers, her every movement deliberate, measured. Clara walked ahead, leading her through the vast corridors of Everthorne Manor. The morning air was cool against her skin, the scent of polished wood and faint embers from the night's dying hearth lingering in the halls.
The manor was eerily quiet, save for the soft echo of their footsteps against the marble floors. Tall windows let in slivers of golden light, illuminating the intricate tapestries and gilded sconces that lined the walls. Every inch of this place spoke of wealth, of legacy—of a life she had stolen.
As they neared the dining hall, Clara slowed, then gently pushed open the towering doors.
Evelyn stepped inside.
The room was bathed in the soft glow of the morning sun, its golden light stretching over the long mahogany table. A grand chandelier hung above, its crystal facets catching the light like scattered stars. The scent of fresh bread, butter, and coffee filled the air.
At the far end of the table, Nathaniel sat in quiet contemplation, a silver knife idly turning between his fingers. He was dressed in dark, tailored attire, the crispness of his white shirt stark against the deep hues of his vest. His silver hair, slightly tousled, caught the light as he turned his head.
Golden eyes met hers. Steady. Assessing.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Evelyn forced herself to move, to glide toward the table with the same effortless grace she had spent months perfecting. Clara pulled out a chair for her, and she sank into it, smoothing the fabric of her gown as she did.
"Good morning," she said, her voice even, composed.
Nathaniel regarded her for a beat longer before inclining his head. "Good morning, Evelyn."
The way he said her name sent a flicker of unease through her. Not unkind. Not warm. Just… unreadable.
A footman approached, pouring tea into the delicate porcelain cup before her.
As Evelyn lifted it to her lips.
Nathaniel set down his knife with a soft clink against the porcelain plate. His gaze never left Evelyn, even as he reached for his coffee. The silence between them stretched, taut as a wire, the weight of unspoken words pressing against her like an unseen hand at her throat.
"You're unusually quiet this morning," he said, his voice smooth, measured. "I expected you to at least complain about last night." He lifted his cup, taking a slow sip. "You did say you wanted our first night to be on our wedding night, yet you didn't stop me when I left your chambers."
Evelyn forced her fingers to remain steady as she set down her tea. The implication hung between them, curling like smoke in the air. He was watching her. Testing her.
The real Eleanor would have responded—how? With an arched brow? A sharp remark? A calculated softness to bend him to her will?
She straightened in her chair, tilting her chin ever so slightly, just as Eleanor might have. "And if I had stopped you?"
Nathaniel's lips curled at the edges, a ghost of a smile that never quite reached his eyes. "Then I suppose I would have been persuaded to stay." He leaned back, studying her like a puzzle he was piecing together. "But you didn't."
Evelyn met his gaze, willing herself not to waver. "Perhaps I knew you wouldn't."
A beat of silence. A flicker of something in his eyes—amusement? Suspicion?
Nathaniel exhaled, setting down his cup. His fingers tapped idly against the table's surface. "You always knew every part of this manor," he mused, his tone light, conversational—yet there was something razor-sharp beneath it. "As a child, you could walk through these halls blindfolded. You knew which floorboards creaked, which rooms caught the morning sun first. I remember you used to complain about the draft in this very dining hall."
He let the words linger, waiting.
Evelyn's grip on her napkin tightened beneath the table. Careful.
She allowed a soft hum of acknowledgment, sipping her tea to buy herself time. "I suppose, after so many years away, I've grown used to finer accommodations," she said smoothly, forcing a small, knowing smile. "Not everyone has the patience to endure a draft, after all."
Nathaniel studied her. And then, just as she thought he might press further, he let out a quiet chuckle.
"Of course," he murmured. "You always did have expensive tastes."
It was a warning as much as it was an observation. A subtle tightening of the noose.
Evelyn lifted her cup once more, letting the warmth of the tea seep into her fingers. If she made one misstep, if she gave him even a sliver of doubt—
He would see the mask for what it was.
Nathaniel resumed his breakfast with an unhurried grace, cutting into his eggs with precise movements. But Evelyn could feel it—the silent scrutiny, the weight of his attention pressing down on her like a physical force. He was waiting. Measuring her reactions.
She forced herself to lift a piece of bread, tearing it delicately before bringing it to her lips. The movements felt mechanical, a performance she had practiced countless times in front of a mirror, and yet she wondered—did he see through it?
Nathaniel's voice broke the silence again. "Do you still take your walks in the gardens before noon?"
It was such a simple question, yet Evelyn knew better. There was no innocence in it.
Eleanor Whitmore had loved the Everthorne gardens. She had walked them every morning, trailing her fingers over the dew-kissed roses, the ivy-covered trellises. The real Eleanor would have answered without hesitation, without thought.
Evelyn's pulse quickened. If she said yes, he might suggest joining her. If she said no, he might wonder why.
She chose the middle ground. "I thought i should take a walk after breakfast ."
Nathaniel lifted his gaze from his plate, eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Strange." He tilted his head, just slightly. "I would have thought it'd be the first place you went, you would miss breakfast just for it."
Another trap.
She let out a quiet breath of amusement. "Would you prefer I say I ran there the moment I woke up?"
Nathaniel's lips quirked at the edges. "I suppose I expected more sentimentality."
Evelyn tilted her head, feigning mild curiosity. "And why is that?"
"Because," Nathaniel set down his fork, leaning slightly forward, his golden eyes locking onto hers with quiet intensity. "You told me once that Everthorne's gardens were the only place you ever truly felt at peace."
A pause.
A tightening of the noose.
Evelyn's fingers curled beneath the table. She could hear Eleanor's voice in that memory, could see the scene he was recalling—but she hadn't lived it. It was something she had studied, dissected, prepared for, and yet, in this moment, the knowledge felt distant. Like borrowed clothing that didn't quite fit.
She forced herself to exhale softly, lowering her gaze just enough to appear thoughtful. "Perhaps I have changed."
Nathaniel's expression did not shift. "Perhaps."
The word was so quiet, so perfectly neutral, that it sent a cold shiver down her spine.
Because she knew—he didn't believe her.
He didn't say it outright. He didn't accuse. But the weight of his silence, the way his gaze lingered just a fraction too long, told her enough.
Nathaniel was waiting for her to slip.
And if she wasn't careful, he would tighten the noose until there was no escape.