Lynette was back at her residence in the estate. She had changed into a flowing sundress, light and airy, perfect for the soft breeze of the evening. A pair of elegant sunglasses shielded her eyes from the setting sun, and she sat beneath a wooden garden shed.
In front of her sat a small round table with a chilled bottle of wine and a half-filled glass, catching glimmers of light with every movement. The estate around her was peaceful—still and quiet.
She leaned back in the cushioned chair, her legs gently crossed, eyes flicking to her phone every other minute. She had been waiting all afternoon for a reply from the information agency.
Earlier, in the car, after she first reached out, the agency had replied promptly. They'd asked for an initial fee of $1,500 just to begin—and an additional fee for the actual information. The process felt shady, even unprofessional, but she was desperate.
She had explained her situation in careful words, making it clear she was only interested in one thing: the truth about Arian's family.
They told her it would take a few hours.
Now, those hours had passed.
She was nearly dozing off, her wine glass resting gently in her hand, when her phone buzzed sharply.
Her eyes snapped open.
She sat upright, quickly unlocking her phone and opening the chat.
"Finally," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper.
Her eyes scanned the screen, each word pulling her deeper into the reply.
A photo appeared in the chat.
Black and white. A family, worn but smiling—two parents, a little boy no older than seven, two older girls perhaps twelve and fifteen, and in the mother's lap, a baby swaddled tightly in a cloth. The baby's face was faintly visible, and it had been circled digitally in red.
Lynette stared at the image.
They looked like they were trying to be happy—eyes squinting under the weight of their smiles, faces thin, clothes worn and rumpled. Even in the stillness of the photo, she could see it: joy trying to breathe under hardship. It was a bittersweet sight. A family clinging to hope in the shadow of poverty.
Then came the message:
"The circled child is Arian. The others are his parents, siblings... all still alive."
Lynette blinked. Her grip tightened around her wine glass.
All still alive.
Not a single one dead. No orphanage. No tragedy. Just a lie.
She scoffed quietly, a bitter smile forming at the corners of her lips.
So this is what Kevin Gael suspects... because Arian hid his family? Is it a crime now to be poor? she thought.
The contact was still online.
Suddenly, her mind sparked with a memory—Abigail's words: "I heard something about his grandfather... your grandfather..."
Her fingers moved quickly over the screen.
"What about his grandfather?"
The typing indicator popped up almost instantly.
She leaned forward, her chest tight with anticipation, staring at the screen like it held a secret that would change everything.
No photo this time.
Just text.
The message dropped into the chat:
"His grandfather's name was Daelan."
Lynette's heart skipped. Her wine glass clinked sharply against the table as she set it down too fast.
Her eyes widened.
"Daelan?" she whispered aloud.
Her voice trembled with disbelief.
"Why is his grandfather's name Daelan?" Lynette thought, her pulse quickening. Don't tell me… is he related to this family?
She scrolled further.
The next message came quickly:
His grandfather having the name 'Daelan' doesn't necessarily mean he's related to the Daelan family. As far as my findings go, there's no confirmed connection.
After his grandfather's early death, his children and grandchildren adopted the surname Csepel, which they've used ever since.
As of now, I couldn't find any record explaining why the name was changed.
Lynette let out a long breath, her chest rising and falling as the tension slowly faded.
So… he's not this Daelan. I almost believed—
She shook her head and gave a quiet, disbelieving laugh.
I almost thought Arian had married into his own family.
Still, the argument between Arian and the original Lynette echoed in her mind. Why had they been speaking about their grandfathers?
The truth felt just out of reach. She couldn't fully understand—not as someone who had taken over Lynette Daelan's life in this strange dimension.
She rose from the garden seat and headed inside. A maid silently followed, collecting the wine and glass from the table.
***
Back in her room, Lynette changed into something more comfortable. The quiet of the estate was soothing, and it wasn't long before her body gave in to sleep.
But her peace was short-lived.
Moments later, she awoke with a start—hands gripped tightly around her neck.
She choked, gasping for breath, struggling beneath the weight of a woman straddling her.
It was her.
The real Lynette Daelan.
Her face twisted in rage. Her voice shook with fury.
"How dare you try to live my life!"
Lynette thrashed beneath her.
"How dare you be intimate with my husband! Die! Die, die, die, die, die!"
Her vision blurred. She clawed at the other woman's arms, but her strength was no match.
Then—there was a knock at the door.
Both Lynettes froze.
And just like that, she awoke.
Breathing hard, her body drenched in sweat despite the cool air of the room, Lynette scanned her surroundings in a daze. There was no one else—no sign of the real Lynette. Just silence.
A sharp knock broke through her haze.
"Young miss, it's time," came Miss Abigail's voice from behind the door.
"You can enter," Lynette said, her voice slightly hoarse.
Miss Abigail stepped in with her usual pleasant, plastered smile holding a packaged cloth. "Miss, you said you'd be going to Azalea the Empress by ten. It's already 9 p.m. You need to prepare. I checked your closet earlier but figured you'd need something fresh, so I picked this up today."
Lynette nodded, still shaken from the nightmare, but grateful for the distraction. Abigail helped her out of bed, and Lynette walked slowly to the bathroom.
As the sound of running water echoed from within, Abigail laid out the new dress neatly on the bed. A sexy red short jumpsuit, just right for a night out with someone like Azalea.
Then Lynette's phone beeped.
"A message," Abigail murmured, reaching for it without thinking.
Her eyes landed on the screen.
I'm waiting for you in the hotel room. Don't be late.
The sender: Kevin Gael.
Abigail's eyes widened. Her grip on the phone tightened just slightly.
She glanced toward the bathroom, then back at the screen—conflicted.
Should she say something?
Should she act like she hadn't seen it?
She placed the phone back down carefully, exactly how it was, and stepped back—expression unreadable.