Chapter 5 – The Rule
The next morning I didn't go near his office door.
I made tea, cleaned the kitchen, folded the towels, and kept my eyes on the floor whenever I passed that closed wooden door. My hands still shook when I remembered Adrian's face — pale, angry, the way he tore my photo in half without blinking.
He left at 7:02 a.m. without a word.
I sat at the kitchen counter with my tea, scrolling through my phone. I typed "Nadia Hassan missing Cairo" again. The same article from two years ago popped up: a 28-year-old marketing executive, last seen leaving her office in Maadi on November 14. No body found. Police called it a disappearance, not a kidnapping. Family asked for privacy.
There was no picture in the article.
I closed the page.
I spent the day trying to act normal. I cooked lentil soup for lunch. I washed the windows. I organized the spices alphabetically because there was nothing else to do. Every time the elevator dinged I flinched, expecting Adrian to walk in.
At 8:05 p.m. he came home.
He took off his coat, saw the soup on the stove, and said, "You cooked."
"I made extra," I said.
He sat down. We ate in silence.
After the bowls were empty, I said, "I saw the scarf."
He stopped eating.
I kept my voice low. "It smells like her perfume."
Adrian set his spoon down. He didn't look at me.
"That's the rule," he said.
"What rule?"
"The rule is you don't ask about her."
I swallowed. "But I live here. I see her photo. I found her scarf. How am I supposed to pretend she doesn't exist?"
He looked at me then, and his eyes were tired, not angry.
"You're here for three years," he said. "You do your part. I do mine. Her name doesn't come up."
I wanted to argue. I wanted to say *I'm not a ghost, I'm a person.* But the look in his eyes stopped me.
I nodded and cleared the plates.
That night I lay in bed and listened to the apartment. Adrian's office light was on until 2 a.m. I heard pages turning, a pen scratching, then the light click off.
The next day I avoided the office.
On the third day, I couldn't.
I was dusting the bookshelf in the hallway when I noticed a small wooden box on the top shelf, half hidden behind a stack of law books. The lid wasn't locked.
I opened it.
Inside was the blue scarf, folded neatly, and a silver bracelet with the name *Nadia* engraved on it.
I picked up the bracelet. It was light, delicate, the letters elegant.
I was holding it when I heard the elevator ding.
I panicked, shoved the box back on the shelf, and was wiping the shelf when Adrian walked in.
He saw me by the bookshelf.
His eyes went to the top shelf, then back to me.
"You touched it," he said.
"No, I—"
"You touched it."
His voice wasn't loud, but it was final.
"I was dusting," I said.
He walked to the shelf, took the box down, opened it, checked the scarf and the bracelet, then closed it and put it back.
"Don't touch her things," he said.
"I'm sorry."
He went into his office and closed the door.
I stood in the hallway with a dust cloth in my hand, feeling like I'd been caught stealing.
That night I couldn't eat.
I made pasta, set the table, waited.
Adrian came home at 8:20 p.m., saw the table, sat down, ate three bites, then pushed his plate away.
"Is something wrong with the food?" I asked.
"No."
"Then why aren't you eating?"
He looked at me. "Because you touched her bracelet."
I felt my face get hot. "I was cleaning."
"You know the rule."
I wanted to scream. "The rule is I can't breathe in this apartment without you getting angry!"
He stood up, left his plate, and went to his office.
I sat at the table alone, the pasta getting cold.
I went to my room and cried into my pillow.
I was following the rules. I was cooking, cleaning, staying out of his way. But every time I saw a trace of her, I felt invisible.
The next morning Adrian left at 6:50 a.m.
At 9 a.m. I decided to do something useful. I went to the grocery store down the street, bought fruits, milk, bread, and some flowers — yellow tulips, because they were cheap.
When I got back, I put the flowers in a glass on the kitchen counter.
At 8 p.m. Adrian came home, saw the flowers, and stopped.
"You bought flowers," he said.
"They were on sale."
He didn't say anything. He just looked at them for a long moment, then went to his office.
I served dinner. He ate all of it this time.
After dinner, I said, "Can I ask you something not about her?"
He looked at me.
"What do you do for work?"
"I'm in import-export."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
I nodded and started clearing the plates.
He said, "Thank you for the flowers."
It was the second kind thing he'd said.
The next day I tried to keep the peace.
I cooked koshari. I cleaned the bathroom. I didn't go near the office.
At 8:30 p.m. Adrian came home, ate, said "Thank you," and went to his office.
I was washing dishes when I heard him on the phone.
His voice was low, but the door was open a crack.
"I told you not to call me here," he said.
A pause.
"She's here. Yes, she's here. No, she doesn't know anything yet."
Another pause.
"I know what the contract says. I know what I have to do."
He closed the door.
I stood at the sink with soapy hands, my heart pounding.
*She's here. She doesn't know anything yet.*
Who was he talking to?
What did the contract say that I didn't know?
That night I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.
I had 3 years.
But I had a feeling the three years were not just about me playing the wife.
The next morning I woke up early and decided to be brave.
I made breakfast — eggs, cheese, bread, tea — and set two plates.
When Adrian came out at 7 a.m., he stopped when he saw the table.
"You made breakfast," he said.
"I thought we could eat together before you go."
He hesitated, then sat down.
We ate.
For the first time, he asked me a question.
"How's your father?"
"He's better. The doctor says he can go home in a week."
Adrian nodded. "Good."
I took a breath. "Adrian, can I ask you something?"
He looked at me.
"Why did you choose me?"
He stopped eating.
"You look like her," he said simply.
"That's not a reason to marry someone."
"It was enough for me."
I felt the words like a slap.
"So I'm just… a copy?"
He didn't answer.
I stood up, took my plate to the sink, and said, "I'm not her, Adrian."
He looked at me, and for a second I saw guilt in his eyes.
"I know," he said quietly.
Then he left for work.
I stood at the sink with tears in my eyes.
I was not her.
I was me.
Lila Ahmed, 24 years old, daughter of a sick father, a girl who signed a contract to save her family.
Not a replacement.
Not a shadow.
Me.
That evening I made his favorite — grilled chicken with rosemary, because I had seen the spice in the cabinet.
He came home at 8 p.m., ate, said "Thank you," and went to his office.
I was cleaning the kitchen when I noticed a small notebook on the counter near his office door.
It wasn't there before.
I picked it up.
The cover was black leather. Inside, the first page had one line written in Adrian's handwriting:
*Day 3 – She asked about Nadia.*
I flipped the page.
*Day 5 – She touched the bracelet.*
*Day 7 – She asked why I chose her.*
My hands were shaking.
He was keeping a diary about me.
I closed the notebook and put it back exactly where it was.
When he came out of his office at 11 p.m., he saw me at the counter.
"Did you touch that?" he asked.
"No," I said.
He looked at me for a long second, then nodded and went to his bedroom.
I went to my room and sat on the bed.
He was documenting me.
Every question I asked, every mistake I made.
Why?
Was this part of the contract?
Was I being tested?
I pulled the blanket over me and whispered to the dark room,
"I'm not her, Adrian. I'm Lila."
The next morning I made breakfast again.
Adrian came out, saw the table, sat down.
We ate.
He said, "The food is good."
"Thank you."
He was about to leave when he stopped.
"The rule is still the same," he said. "Don't ask about her."
"I know," I said.
He nodded and left.
I sat at the table after he left and opened the notebook.
*Day 8 – She made breakfast. She asked why I chose her.*
Under it, in smaller writing:
*She's not her. She knows it.*
I closed the notebook.
My heart was beating fast.
He knew I was not her.
So why did he marry me?