Miralle didn't tell anyone she was leaving early.
She shut down her computer, slid the chair back into place, and picked up her bag as if it were an ordinary afternoon. Her supervisor was arguing with someone on the phone. No one noticed when Miralle walked past.
Outside, the light had shifted. The day felt unfinished.
She didn't go straight to the bus stop. Instead, she walked two streets down and bought a bottle of water from a roadside stall. She drank half of it standing there, watching people cross the road in groups, talking, laughing, touching shoulders.
Normal life, still happening.
Her phone vibrated.
Car waiting outside.
No greeting. No signature.
She looked up and saw the car immediately. Black. Clean. Parked where it shouldn't have been.
Miralle hesitated long enough for the driver to step out and open the rear door. He didn't say anything. He didn't look curious.
She got in.
The inside smelled faintly of leather and something sharper — not unpleasant, just unfamiliar. The door closed softly behind her, sealing out the noise of the street.
The car moved.
They drove without conversation. Through areas Miralle knew well, then past them. Shops turned into offices. Offices into private buildings with guards at the gates.
Finally, the car slowed.
Miralle leaned forward slightly as they passed through a security checkpoint. No one asked her name.
They stopped in front of a building that didn't announce itself. No sign. No name. Just glass and stone.
The driver opened the door again.
"Wait here," he said.
Miralle stayed seated until he returned. Then she followed him inside.
Adrian was already there.
Not behind a desk. Not standing at attention.
He was seated on a couch, jacket removed, sleeves rolled, reading something on a tablet. The room looked lived-in without being personal. Neutral colours. Nothing decorative. Everything intentional.
"You came," he said, without looking up.
"You said there was a car," Miralle replied.
"That wasn't a request."
She stood near the doorway. He didn't tell her to sit this time.
"Are you hungry?" Adrian asked.
"No."
He nodded once, as if that confirmed something. "You'll eat anyway."
A woman entered quietly and placed a tray on the table. Soup. Bread. Simple food.
Miralle stared at it for a moment before sitting down. She didn't rush. She didn't thank anyone. She ate because the food was there.
Adrian watched her for exactly as long as it took her to notice.
"You don't ask questions," he said.
"I do," Miralle replied. "Just not immediately."
He accepted that.
When she finished, the tray was removed without comment. Adrian set the tablet aside and leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees.
"This arrangement," he said, "will last as long as I need it to."
"That's not very specific."
"It doesn't need to be."
Miralle folded her hands together. "You said I'd be pretending to be your partner."
"Yes."
"For whom?"
"For people who matter."
She waited. He didn't elaborate.
"What happens if I say something wrong?" she asked.
"You won't," Adrian replied. "You'll listen."
"And if I don't?"
His mouth curved slightly. Not a smile.
"Then I'll correct it."
The answer wasn't threatening. That somehow made it worse.
He stood and gestured toward a hallway. "Come with me."
They walked side by side. The floor was quiet underfoot. No echoes. No wasted space.
He stopped outside a door and opened it.
Inside was a bedroom.
Large. Spare. A bed that had never been slept in. A wardrobe already filled.
"These are your clothes," Adrian said. "Wear them when you're here. Outside, dress as you like."
Miralle stepped inside slowly. She ran her fingers along the edge of a sleeve. The fabric was soft. Too soft.
"This isn't temporary," she said.
Adrian didn't answer.
She turned back to him. "You said no questions I didn't need answered."
"Yes."
"This feels like one I need answered."
He considered her for a moment. "You'll be introduced soon," he said. "That requires consistency."
"With who?"
"With people who already assume I have someone," Adrian replied. "I'm simply correcting the timeline."
Miralle exhaled through her nose. "And what happens to me when they stop assuming?"
"That depends on how well you do your part."
She didn't like that answer. She didn't argue with it either.
He handed her a phone.
"Contacts are limited," Adrian said. "No social media. No personal photos. Calls only when necessary."
Miralle turned the phone over in her hand. It was new.
"What about my job?" she asked.
"You'll resign tomorrow."
"I need that income."
"You won't," Adrian said. "You'll be compensated."
"Paid?"
He met her eyes. "Protected."
The word sat between them.
Miralle placed the phone on the bed. "You keep saying I won't be hurt."
"Yes."
"But you're not saying I'll be safe."
"No," Adrian replied. "I'm not."
She nodded once. "At least you're honest."
That earned her another look. Longer this time.
"You'll stay here tonight," Adrian said. "Tomorrow, we begin."
"Begin what, exactly?"
He paused at the door.
"Convincing people," he said, "that you matter to me."
Miralle looked around the room again. The bed. The clothes. The silence.
"And if they don't believe it?"
Adrian's expression didn't change.
"Then I'll make sure they do."
He closed the door behind him.
Miralle sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting flat on her knees. She didn't lie down. She didn't cry. She didn't pace.
Instead, she memorized the room.
The way the light fell.
The sound of the air conditioning.
The fact that there were no locks on the inside.
She understood something then, quietly, without panic.
This wasn't about pretending to belong.
It was about being placed.
And once placed, being useful.