Julian finds me in the east hallway the next morning.
He doesn't ask where I've been. He just leads me past a wall of framed portraits. In one, I'm laughing on a yacht. In another, sipping champagne on a balcony overlooking the Amalfi Coast.
"I don't remember these," I murmur.
"You will," he replies.
But then I see the final portrait — half-covered, hung crookedly on the wall. The woman in the frame wears a black velvet dress, a pearl choker, and a cruel smile. Her face is mine… but older. Sharper. Her eyes are hollow.
"Who is she?"
Julian's eyes flick toward the painting. "No one."
But I catch it — the tightness in his jaw. The flicker of memory behind his eyes.
"It's her, isn't it?" I whisper. "The real wife."
He doesn't answer.
I step closer, noticing something dark at the edge of the frame — red streaks across her throat.
Paint? Or blood?
I turned to him.
"Julian… What happened to Evelyne?"
A pause.
Then, calmly: "She left me."