My foot taps an erratic rhythm against the polished hardwood floor. Why the hell am I so eager to bolt out of here? I know the answer, deep down, but admitting it to myself would crack open a door I know I should fucking keep shut.
It's her.
Carolyn—or whatever version of her this is.
I tell myself the party's the perfect excuse to watch her without being obvious. Since the event will stretch on for hours, it will give me time to study the inexplicable changes in her. Without this opportunity, it'll be just glimpses—her slipping down a hallway, her laugh faintly slipping out of Freya's room. No more than teasing fragments that leave me hungry for more. My body tightens with a strange frustration.
I pick up the half-empty tumbler of Macallan 18. The amber liquid swirls as I lift it. The smoky peat burns a slow path down my throat as my thoughts drift back to her, the way her skin flushed in Freya’s room yesterday. What the hell was that?
My assistant buzzes me, her voice emotionless over the intercom. "Mr. Bessant, the Tokyo team is ready for the conference call. They have made the adjustments to the supply chain clauses. Should I patch them through?"
I hesitate, my finger hovering over the button, the weight of the deal pressing down like the air outside. This call could drag on. The itch to leave intensifies, like a physical pull tugging at me. "Patch them in," I instruct, and the video feed flickers to life on my monitor—faces in suits nodding from a sleek boardroom halfway around the world, the time difference making it morning there. The words bubble up naturally. "Gentlemen, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’ll have to reschedule this call to tomorrow. I have a pressing matter at home that needs my attention."
There's a pause on their end, then the Japanese way: polite murmurs of agreement masking their surprise. I cut the connection with a click, and the screen goes dark. My heart thuds with a mix of relief and that nagging unease—since when do I bail on work for my housekeeper's party? But it's not about Dora. It's all about Carolyn. I grab my suit jacket from the backof the chair, slide the wool over my shoulders, and head out. The elevator ride down feels endless, my mind racing.
By the time I pull up the gravel drive, the downstairs windows are all glowing warmly. The house feels different tonight, even from the outside—a faint hum of music and laughter drifting through the open French doors of the music room, pulling me in like a tether.
Inside, the sounds of a party in full progress draw me straight to the music room. I push open the door and it’s all there. What should have been Carolyn’s idea of a ‘tacky’ party. The sweet aroma of chocolate, metal trays of half-eaten food, a disco ball and a live DJ playing songs from the eighties, staff in their uniforms laughing and dancing on a makeshift dance floor. I'm hit with it all at once, and something twists hard in my chest. This is the first time the house has felt like home since Dad passed away.
That emptiness, Dad-shaped hole that's lingered for years, has eased just a fraction. Mom is seating regally in a corner chaise lounge and talking animatedly to one of the neighbors, Dora and her family beaming as she opens presents wrapped in shimmering paper. Everyone's smiling, genuinely, the room alive with shared stories and laughter, the crystal chandeliers casting a soft, twinkling light over the whole scene.
And Carolyn is at the center of it all.
She is sitting on the piano stool next to Freya while they both stomp out an aggressive and fun rendition ofChopsticks. They look like two mad things as they lean forward, their concentration so intense that they have cancelled out the rest of the room. I freeze in the doorway, shock rippling through me—I didn't know Carolyn played piano. She's never touched the thing, not once in all these years, dismissing it as "the headache machine" whenever Freya’s music teacher came to give herlessons. Yet here she is, her touch sure and utterly confident. What the hell?
I stare at, I mean, I really look, and my breath catches. Heat stirs low. She's wearing a spaghetti-strap striped sundress—thin black and white lines hugging her curves, the fabric light and flowing over her thighs as she shifts on the bench. The dress clings just right, and a faint sheen of perspiration makes her skin glow under the chandelier light. Her hair's pulled up in a simple ponytail, exposing the graceful line of her neck. Even that is so unlike Carolyn—she's always hated ponytails, claiming they make grown women look like kids. But right now, with that innocent flush on her cheeks from the warmth of the room and the exertion of making music, she looks breathtaking, vulnerable.
God, she looks unbelievable. A vision I can't tear my eyes from.
At that point, the realization hits me full force. There's something right in front of my face that I'm missing, a puzzle piece that's glaringly out of place. It unsettles me deep in my bones, like a prickling awareness that makes my skin tighten.
Who is this woman wearing my wife's face?
I need to find the truth. And I will find it if it is the last thing I do. My eyes scan the room and land on a stranger. A young woman with wild chestnut curls, paint-speckled jeans, and a casual tank top, laughing awkwardly as she dips a strawberry into the chocolate fountain. She's out of place amid the staff, and she is definitely not someone Carolyn would be friends with. I cross to Mom's side. Our neighbor has left, so I sink into the chaise beside her.
"Who's that?" I ask under my breath, nodding toward the girl.
Mom glances over, her champagne flute halfway to her lips. "She delivered a commissioned painting to Carolyn's roomearlier. She’s an independent artist or something. Your daughter saw her outside, fell in love with her hair, and invited her to stay for the party."
I nod distractedly, but suspicion coils tighter in my gut, and I can't help staring, my gaze locking on her as she fidgets with her plate. There's something off about her—nervous, shifty, her eyes darting around before landing on Carolyn. She's hiding something. I rise, and crossing the room with deliberate steps, approach her. I extend a hand.
"I'm Blake Bessant," I say, my voice smooth and charming, but I watch her reaction closely. "And you are?"
She hesitates, and her grip is clammy as she shakes. Then her green eyes flick away nervously towards Carolyn. "Emma. Emma Thompson," she mutters, shifting her weight, a flush creeping up her neck.
“You’re an artist, I hear.”
“Yes,” she says almost desperately.
“Where do you show your work?" I press, leaning in slightly.
She pauses too long, and her fingers twist the stem of her glass. "Oh, um, East Village. Small space, nothing fancy." Her words tumble out shaky, her gaze skittering to Carolyn and back, and I feel the tension thicken, her shifty energy setting my instincts on edge.
“Do you have a card?”
She forces a smile. “Er… no. I didn’t bring one. But Carolyn knows where I am.”
I nod and step back, retreating to the corner where Mom is watching me with avid curiosity.
