Chapter 2 – The Empty Apartment
The building was on 26 July Street in Zamalek.
I had never been to Zamalek before. I grew up in Imbaba, where the buildings are crowded, the streets are noisy, and the elevators barely work. This building was different. It was tall, modern, with a glass entrance and a security guard in a navy uniform who nodded at me as I walked in.
I told him the apartment number — 2704.
He pressed the button for the 27th floor and said, "Good evening, ma'am."
I nodded but didn't say anything. My throat was too tight.
The elevator was glass on one side. As it rose, I could see the Nile stretching below, the water reflecting the orange light of the sunset. The city looked beautiful from up here. It also looked far away, like I was leaving my old life behind with every floor we passed.
When the doors opened on the 27th floor, I stepped into a hallway that was silent. Too silent.
There was no sound of TV from behind doors. No smell of cooking. No children laughing. Just the soft hum of the air conditioning.
The door to 2704 was black, modern, with no nameplate. Just the numbers engraved in the metal.
I took the silver key from my pocket. My hands were shaking again.
I inserted the key, turned it, and pushed the door open.
The silence inside was overwhelming.
The apartment was huge. I had never been in a place this big.
The floor was white marble, so clean I could see my reflection in it. The furniture was black and gray, expensive and spotless, as if it had never been used. There were no pictures on the walls. No books on the shelves. No plants. No personal items at all.
It didn't feel like a home.
It felt like a showroom.
I placed my small bag on the marble counter and just stood there, looking around.
The kitchen was bigger than my entire apartment. Stainless steel appliances, a large island in the middle, a wine fridge full of bottles I couldn't pronounce. The cabinets were all closed, no dishes visible, no food in the fridge except for a bottle of water.
The living room had floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the entire city. A black leather couch, a glass coffee table, an 85-inch TV mounted on the wall. The curtains were closed.
I walked through the rooms slowly, my footsteps echoing.
There were two bedrooms.
The master bedroom had a king-size bed with white sheets, a walk-in closet the size of my old apartment, and a bathroom with a bathtub big enough for two people. The closet was empty except for a few men's suits hanging neatly.
The second bedroom was the guest room. It had a queen-size bed with white sheets, a small wooden desk, and a window that looked out at the other buildings.
I chose the guest room.
I put my bag on the bed and sat down.
The mattress was so soft I sank into it.
I was still sitting there when I heard the door open at 8:03 p.m.
I stood up quickly, my heart racing so fast I thought it might jump out of my chest.
Adrian Cole walked in.
He was taller than I expected. At least 185 cm. Dark hair, neatly cut. Strong jawline. Dark eyes that seemed to look right through me. He was wearing a black coat over a dark shirt, no tie. His shoes were polished, his posture straight.
He didn't smile.
"You're Lila," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes," I replied, my voice small.
He nodded, placed his briefcase on the counter, and said, "The guest room is the second door on the left. Don't enter my office. Don't have guests. Don't ask questions."
He was already walking toward the hallway.
"Wait," I said.
He stopped but didn't turn around.
"What if I need something?"
"You don't."
The door to his office closed behind him.
I stood in the middle of the living room, holding my bag, realizing I had just married a stranger who didn't want me there.
I went to the guest room, closed the door, and sat on the bed.
The apartment was beautiful.
It was also the loneliest place I had ever been.
I took out my phone and called my father's hospital.
"How is he?" I asked, my voice trembling.
"He's stable for now," the nurse said. "The bail has been paid. He'll be transferred to the private hospital tomorrow morning."
I closed my eyes and let out the breath I had been holding.
It was worth it.
Even if the apartment felt empty.
Even if my husband was cold.
Even if I had no idea what I had just gotten myself into.
I put my phone down and looked around the guest room.
The walls were white. The bed was white. The desk was light wood. The only color in the room was the dark blue curtains.
I opened the closet. Empty, except for three hangers.
I opened the desk drawer. Empty.
I opened the nightstand. Empty.
There was nothing of me here.
I went back to the living room. The lights were dim. Adrian's office door was still closed.
I was hungry, but I didn't know if I was allowed to use the kitchen.
I decided to wait.
I sat on the couch and looked out the window at the city lights.
I thought about my father. I thought about the contract. I thought about the warning the lawyer gave me: *Don't fall in love with him.*
I wondered what kind of man gives that warning about himself.
At 9:30 p.m., Adrian came out of his office.
He was now wearing a black t-shirt and dark pants, no shoes.
He saw me sitting on the couch and stopped.
"You're still up," he said.
"I… I didn't know if I could eat anything."
He walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge, took out the bottle of water, and handed it to me.
"There's food in the fridge," he said. "You can eat whatever you want."
"Thank you."
He nodded and went back to his office.
I opened the fridge.
It was full.
There was chicken, rice, vegetables, fruit, juice, yogurt — everything.
I made myself a small plate and ate it on the couch.
The food was good. I hadn't eaten a proper meal in days.
After I finished, I cleaned the plate and put it in the sink.
I went back to the guest room, brushed my teeth in the bathroom attached to it, and got into bed.
The bed was so comfortable I wanted to cry.
I pulled the blanket over me and stared at the ceiling.
I was married.
I was living in a luxury apartment.
My father was safe in a hospital.
But I felt empty.
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep.
I couldn't.
I kept thinking about Adrian's voice. Cold. Distant. Like he was talking to an employee, not a wife.
I kept thinking about the rules: *Don't enter my office. Don't have guests. Don't ask questions.*
What was in that office that he didn't want me to see?
I turned on my side and tried to sleep.
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, it was 1:47 a.m.
I was awake.
I couldn't go back to sleep.
I got out of bed and went to the kitchen to get water.
The apartment was dark except for the light from the city coming through the windows.
As I walked past his office, I noticed the door was slightly ajar.
A thin line of light was coming from inside.
I told myself not to look.
I told myself to keep walking to the kitchen.
I didn't.
I stopped in front of the door.
I could see the desk inside, the lamp on, papers scattered.
I pushed the door open a little more.
I stepped inside.
The room was a study. Bookshelves filled with books, a large wooden desk, a computer, a leather chair.
And on the desk, a single framed photograph.
I walked closer.
The photo was of a woman.
She had long dark hair, a soft smile, and eyes that were exactly the same color as mine.
My breath caught in my throat.
Under the frame, written in black marker, was one word:
**MISSING**
I felt my heart drop to my stomach.
Who was this woman?
Why was her photo in my husband's office?
Why did she look so much like me?
I reached out to touch the frame.
The moment my fingers touched the glass, I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned around quickly.
Adrian was standing in the doorway, his face dark.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice low and cold.
"I… I was just getting water," I stammered.
His eyes went to the photo in my hand.
His expression changed instantly. The coldness was replaced by something else.
Pain.
"Put it back," he said quietly.
I put the photo back on the desk.
He walked in, closed the door, and stood in front of me.
"You were told not to enter this room," he said.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"Don't."
He said it so sharply that I stopped talking.
He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes searching my face.
"You have her eyes," he said quietly.
I didn't know what to say.
"Who is she?" I asked.
"That's none of your concern," he replied.
He walked past me, turned off the lamp, and left the room, closing the door behind him.
I stood there in the dark, my heart pounding.
I went back to my room and sat on the bed.
I couldn't stop thinking about the photo.
The woman looked so much like me.
Same hair.
Same eyes.
Same smile.
Was she his ex-girlfriend?
His ex-wife?
Why was her photo labeled MISSING?
I didn't sleep at all that night.
I just sat on the bed, staring at the closed door of his office, wondering what kind of man I had married.
When morning came, I got up, made myself a cup of tea, and tried to act like nothing had happened.
At 7 a.m., Adrian came out of his room, dressed in a suit, ready to go to work.
He saw me in the kitchen and stopped.
"Good morning," I said.
He nodded. "Morning."
He poured himself a cup of coffee, drank it in silence, and left.
No kiss. No hug. No "have a good day."
Just "morning."
I sat at the kitchen counter, holding my cup of tea, and realized something:
I wasn't his wife.
I was a tenant.
A tenant who looked like a missing woman.
And I had three years to figure out why.