Chapter 7
1491 Words
Winter in Cornwall was not a place for those seeking warmth. The sky was a heavy, leaden gray, pressing down as if it wanted to crush anyone standing beneath it.
The wind from the Atlantic Ocean blew mercilessly, crashing against the rocky cliffs with a long, roaring sound.
Damian stood in front of St. Jude’s Church, his black wool coat fluttering in the wind. His expensive leather shoes were now stained with mud and wet stones—something that rarely happened in his always neat and controlled life.
“Sir… we can still turn back. The weather is getting worse,” Mark said, raising his voice to be heard over the howling wind.
Damian didn’t respond. His gaze was fixed on the old stone building ahead, as if it held the answers he had been chasing all this time.
“This church has stood since the 12th century. The records here are almost impossible to forge. They still use strict physical archiving systems,” Mark continued, his voice struggling against the wind.
Damian remained silent. He pushed the heavy wooden door open forcefully.
Creeeak…
The old hinges groaned loudly, echoing as if welcoming him with cold indifference.
Inside, the atmosphere was eerily quiet. The soft scent of beeswax and old wood lingered in the air. Dim light from the stained-glass windows fell gently across the stone floor.
An elderly man in a black robe stood near the altar, arranging several worn-out books. He turned slowly when he heard footsteps.
“Good afternoon… how may I help you?” his voice was soft, yet rough with age.
“Father Miller?” Mark asked politely.
The man nodded. “Yes, that’s me.”
Damian stepped forward without hesitation. “I want to see the marriage records. Under the names Sheina Blake and Thomas Blake.”
Father Miller frowned slightly but did not refuse. He walked slowly to a long wooden table and opened a large book with a peeling leather cover.
His wrinkled fingers traced the pages one by one.
“Sheina Blake… Thomas Blake…” he murmured.
A few seconds passed before—
“Ah… here it is,” he said at last.
A faint smile appeared on his face, as if an old memory had come back to life.
“I remember that day,” he said slowly. “It was a very foggy morning. They came alone, accompanied only by two local fishermen as witnesses. Simple… but meaningful.”
Damian stiffened. His jaw tightened.
“Meaningful?” he repeated in a low voice. “What do you mean?”
Father Miller looked at him, slightly puzzled by his tone.
“The way they looked at each other… it wasn’t just an ordinary marriage,” he explained. “They were two people who truly loved each other.”
Thud.
Those words hit Damian’s chest mercilessly. His hands clenched into fists.
“That man… Thomas Blake,” Damian’s voice grew heavy. “Did he really exist? Or was he just a fake name?”
Father Miller paused, then looked at Damian more seriously.
“Of course he was real. I remember his face very clearly. He was a kind man, gentle at heart,” Father Miller replied.
Damian took a sharp breath, as if the air had suddenly become too thin.
“I also remember clearly… Sheina looked very happy marrying Thomas. She was a fortunate woman to have a man like him.”
Damian’s jaw hardened further. A dull pain slowly crept into his chest.
Without saying a word, he pulled out a photograph from inside his coat and handed it over with slightly trembling hands.
“Then… look at this.”
Father Miller took the photo and held it closer to the candlelight. Silence fell once again. Damian could hear his own heartbeat loudly in his ears.
“Is this the same woman?” Damian asked softly.
Father Miller studied it for a long moment. Then he slowly shook his head.
“The face… is indeed very similar, but this is not the woman I married,” he said carefully.
“How can that be different? This woman is clearly Sheina Blake,” Damian insisted, even though the photo he was holding was of Camila Wilson.
“The woman I married had honey-blonde hair,” Father Miller continued. “And her eyes… were strong. Full of life.”
He slightly raised the photo again.
“While the woman in this picture… looks gentle, but fragile.”
Damian snatched the photo back roughly.
“Hair can be dyed!” he snapped. “People can change!”
Father Miller did not take offense. He simply nodded calmly.
“That’s true. But Sheina was pregnant at the time,” he added.
Damian froze instantly.
“The woman… was pregnant when she got married?” Damian frowned.
“Yes. And Thomas looked very protective of her.”
Damian fell silent. He began to waver. Was Sheina truly someone else who only looked like Camila? Or were they the same person?
“Sir…” Mark called softly as Damian walked unsteadily out of the church.
Outside, a light drizzle had begun to fall.
Damian walked aimlessly, letting his expensive coat soak in the cold rain.
“Sir!” Mark quickly followed with an umbrella. “We need to go back. This isn’t safe.”
Damian stopped at the edge of the cliff.
His eyes stared at the waves crashing against the rocks below.
“Everything… matches,” Mark murmured behind him. “Hospital records, insurance, marriage records… everything is valid.”
Damian let out a small laugh.
But it was empty.
“So she isn’t Camila?” he whispered. “Then why… does my heart tell me she is my wife?”
Mark hesitated before answering carefully.
“Maybe… because the resemblance is too strong, Sir.”
Damian turned sharply. His gaze was dangerous.
“Then what about Leo?” his voice rose. “Are you going to tell me that boy looking like me is just a coincidence too?!”
Mark lowered his head, not daring to respond.
Damian took a rough breath.
“I won’t stop,” he said coldly. “If Cornwall won’t give me answers… then I will force Sheina to reveal the truth.”
“We’re going back to Manhattan. Now.”
Damian walked ahead toward his private jet waiting nearby.
Two Days Later – Manhattan, New York.
BANG!
The door opened without knocking.
“What is this, Damian?!”
The sharp sound of high heels echoed across the marble floor. Damian didn’t need to turn.
He already knew—it was his mother, Lady Beatrice.
“What is it, Mom?” he asked flatly.
Lady Beatrice sat down without being invited.
“The entire board is talking about you,” she said sarcastically. “You spent thirty million dollars on some low-class painter?”
“It’s an investment.” Damian gave a faint smile.
“And the trip to a remote village? Looking for the grave of an insignificant man?” she mocked.
“That’s none of their business.” Damian’s gaze turned cold.
Lady Beatrice stood up, her eyes piercing.
“It becomes my business when you start chasing the shadow of the woman who killed your own sister!”
The atmosphere froze instantly.
“Camila is dead! And her death is what she deserved after killing Clara, so stop looking for someone who is already dead, Damian!” she continued.
Damian stood up slowly. His dark aura felt suffocating.
“Stop saying that,” his voice was low… but threatening.
“Wake up, Damian!” Lady Beatrice snapped. “You already have Ellena!”
“I don’t love her.” His answer was firm. Without hesitation.
“You’ll become a laughingstock. Obsessed with a woman who doesn’t even want you,” Lady Beatrice scoffed.
Damian turned toward the window. The lights of New York shimmered below.
“She rejected me… but I’m sure I will have her again,” he said quietly.
“Oh, come on, Damian. Wake up from your fantasy. Ellena is far better than her. She comes from a family equal to ours. If you marry her, our family will become even stronger,” Lady Beatrice rolled her eyes.
“I told you, I don’t love her. So stop trying to match me with Ellena,” Damian said, clearly annoyed.
“DAMIAN!”
“MOM, STOP!”
Lady Beatrice took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She knew anger wouldn’t work on him.
“Next month… the gallery inauguration. What’s your plan?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
“Sheina Blake will be the guest of honor. I will invite her to dinner,” Damian said with a faint smile.
“You’re playing with fire.” Lady Beatrice’s expression darkened.
“Then let me burn,” Damian replied coldly. “At least I will know whether Sheina Blake is Camila… or not.”
- Writer
