The Untraceable Wife

Ghosts

East Village, New York

Liam Sterling stood in front of a six-story apartment building, looking up at the third-floor window. The beige curtains were slightly yellowed at the edges—just like seven years ago. Back then, Scarlett was still a graduate student in the Art History department at Columbia University, living in this tiny studio apartment, barely fifty square meters.

He had never set foot here.

Before proposing, he had suggested coming to see where she lived. She had said, “It’s too small for you to fit in.” Now that he thought about it, it wasn’t self-deprecation; it was a boundary she had drawn long before. She had already made it clear where he was not allowed to enter, and he had never noticed.

"The landlord said the tenant moved out last week," Private Investigator Carlson stood behind him, holding a tablet. "A Finnish exchange student, rented for two years. It was vacant for a few months before that."

"Vacancy period?"

"From June to September last year," Carlson swiped the screen. "Before that, it was rented by a young couple for three years. That means, after Mrs. Sterling—after Scarlett moved in with you, no one with any connection to her has lived here."

Liam said nothing. He walked into the hallway, where the narrow staircase smelled of dampness and faint curry. Third floor, apartment 3B. The lock was a basic pin lock, and Carlson had it open in less than ten seconds.

The scene inside made Liam freeze.

The apartment was almost entirely empty. A light dust covered the wooden floor, and in the corners were a few cardboard boxes left behind. Sunlight slanted through the single window, illuminating the dust floating in the air.

But on the wall by the window, something remained.

Liam walked over. There was a huge subway map of New York tacked to the wall, faded and yellowed with age. Red marker lines traced routes: from Columbia University to Sotheby's Auction House, from the Metropolitan Museum to Chelsea's gallery district—these were the paths Scarlett had traveled every day while she was working on her thesis.

Next to the subway map were several photographs pinned up.

The first one: Scarlett in the library, holding a stack of art yearbooks taller than she was, smiling with her eyes squinted.

The second: Her in a student gallery, tiptoeing to hang a painting, with paint stains on her jeans.

The third: Graduation day, wearing her master’s robe, holding an award for best thesis.

Liam had never seen these photos. The Scarlett he knew was already the obedient wife, selecting his ties, arranging dinner parties, smiling gracefully at charity auctions as Mrs. Sterling.

He reached out to touch the edges of the photos. Under the dust, there was writing on the back of each one.

He carefully picked up the first one and flipped it over.

"October 3, 2017. My professor said my thesis has ‘rare insight.’ I think, maybe I really can leave something behind in this field."

The second one’s back:

"February 14, 2018. Turned down Jason’s invitation for a date. He said I was too serious, didn’t know how to enjoy life. Maybe he’s right, but my art matters more than dating."

The third one, graduation photo back:

"May 20, 2018. Met Liam Sterling today. He walked over at the post-auction cocktail party and pointed out that I had champagne on my collar. His handkerchief was silk, embroidered with the letter ‘L.’ My life veered off course from that moment."

Liam’s fingers froze. "Veered off course." She called their meeting a "veer off course."

Carlson was inspecting some boxes. "Boss, there’s something here."

Liam walked over. The box contained books, mostly art history monographs: Panofsky, Gombrich, Kenneth Clark… but on top was a brown paper envelope with no seal.

He pulled out the envelope. Inside were several yellowed pages.

The first page was a copy of the lease, signed by Scarlett Anderson. Lease term: September 1, 2016 – August 31, 2018. Rent: $1,200 per month.

The second page was a bank statement, showing a monthly transfer from the "Anderson Family Trust," covering the rent and living expenses. The note read: "Remaining balance for mother's medical expenses."

The third was a handwritten budget, so neatly organized it almost seemed compulsive:

Rent: $1200

Food: $300

Transportation: $100

Books & Materials: $200

Medical Reserve Fund: $400

Total: $2200

She budgeted $2200 a month. Yesterday’s lunch bill was $800.

He remembered how Scarlett never asked him for money. Even after marriage, she insisted on using her modest earnings from authentication and consulting to pay for her mother's nursing home. He had offered to cover it, but she said, "That’s my responsibility."

At the time, he thought it was pride. Now he understood: it was the last piece of autonomy she had kept. It was the firewall she built between herself and the name "Sterling."

"Here’s something else," Carlson pulled a sketchbook from the bottom of the box.

Liam took it. The book was thick, with a dark blue canvas cover, its edges worn. He flipped open the first page.

Date: September 10, 2016. The sketch: the fire escape outside the apartment window. Caption: "Day One. New York, be gentle with me."

He flipped through the pages. A cashier dozing off at the supermarket, an elderly man reading poetry on the subway, a homeless person playing guitar in Washington Square... Scarlett’s strokes were delicate and gentle, every figure given a quiet dignity as if they had been deeply observed.

Then he came to the pages from June 2018.

The scenes changed. There was a profile of a man, a close-up of his hand, the lines of his shoulder… it was his face, his hand, his shoulder. Every detail captured from angles he had never noticed before: the slight furrow of his brow when he thought, the way his index finger pressed the pen, the subtle creases in his suit at the shoulder from years of leaning over a desk.

She watched him, like she was observing a precious artifact.

The last drawing, dated June 7, 2018, the night before their wedding.

It was of their first kiss—on the terrace of his Manhattan apartment, the lights of New York spread below them like a river of stars. In the drawing, she had her eyes closed, while he looked at her, his gaze so complex that even now, he couldn’t interpret it.

In the corner of the paper, there was a small note, the ink slightly smudged:

"Tomorrow I will become his wife. May God forgive me, for I am about to give up a part of myself for love."

Liam slammed the sketchbook shut. The sound of paper closing echoed loudly in the empty apartment.

Give up a part of herself. She had known all along. She had known what it meant to marry him.

"Boss," Carlson’s voice brought him back to reality. "There’s something behind the bedroom wardrobe."

The bedroom was small, just big enough for a single bed and a simple wardrobe. Carlson moved the wardrobe, revealing a hidden compartment—a loose plasterboard panel.

Liam pried open the plasterboard. Inside was a metal box.

It wasn’t locked. He opened it.

On top was a letter, the envelope addressed: "To the person who finds this box (most likely my future self)."

He pulled out the letter. Scarlett’s handwriting was even more youthful than it was now:

"If you are reading this letter, two things have happened: One, I’ve left Liam; two, I’ve finally mustered the courage to return for this box."

"The box contains my life before I became ‘Mrs. Sterling’: my most cherished memories, my most fragile dreams, and my truest fears."

The fear list read:

My mother's illness will cause me to forget who I am.

I will allow a man to define my worth because I love him.

One day, I will wake up and not recognize the person in the mirror.

I will regret the decision I made today, but there will be no way to turn back.

"If you are me— I hope you have no regrets. I hope you’ve found the courage to paint again, the right to say no, the girl who stayed up late in the library writing her thesis, believing that art can change the world."

"If you are not Scarlett Anderson… please treat these fragments kindly. They once belonged to a living person."

The letter slipped from Liam’s hand and fluttered to the dust-covered floor.

Carlson carefully picked it up. "Boss…"

"Leave," Liam said, his voice hoarse.

"What?"

"Leave. Wait for me downstairs."

Carlson hesitated but nodded and left. The door clicked shut.

Liam knelt on the floor, pulling out one item after another from the metal box:

A photo of her mother when she was young, with the back inscribed: "The bravest woman in the world."

The receipt for her first watercolor painting sold, $200.

A lock of hair tied with a ribbon, golden, dyed when she was in college.

A one-way plane ticket stub to Paris, dated summer 2015.

And a thin diary, with only the first three pages written.

He opened the diary.

May 25, 2018

"Today Liam asked me why I chose art history. I said because I believe beauty can save the world. He laughed and said I was naive. He said the world only responds to power and money. I wanted to argue, but when I saw his eyes, I fell silent. There was a hunger in those eyes that scared me, yet mesmerized me."

June 3, 2018

"Our engagement was announced today. Victoria asked me to tea. She said that the women of the Sterling family need to learn ‘timely silence.’ She showed me a family album, pointing at the blurry-faced women and said: ‘They all learned how to be the background.’ I asked her if she was happy. She said: ‘Happiness is a luxury, responsibility is a necessity.’"

June 6, 2018

"Last night as Scarlett Anderson. Tomorrow I will become Scarlett Sterling. Mom cried on the phone today, she said: ‘Don’t lose your name, dear. Your name hides your soul.’"

Liam, if you see this— Yes, I anticipated you might find this box. I even hoped you would find it. Because I want you to know, the girl you married, has this kind of past and these fears.

But more likely, you’ll never find this place. Just like you never truly found me.

The diary ends here.

Liam sat on the floor, leaning against the cold wall. The sunlight had moved away, and the room was half-lit, half-shadowed. He held the lock of golden hair, the ribbon already fading.

He had never truly found her.

That sentence echoed through his empty chest.

His phone buzzed. It was Victoria.

He stared at the screen for a long time before muting it. Let her wait. Let the whole world wait.

He looked back at the metal box. At the very bottom, there was one last thing: a small glass bottle, containing a few white pills. The label read: "Diazepam. Prescription date: June 5, 2018."

Two days before the wedding. She needed sleeping pills to sleep.

And what had he been doing at that time? Finalizing merger terms, trying on custom suits, confirming the seating chart for the wedding dinner—arranging his allies and potential clients nearest to the head table.

He had never asked her if she was nervous, scared.

He assumed she would be thrilled, as if receiving a gift.

The phone buzzed again. This time, it was Isabelle. He rejected the call.

Then he did something he couldn’t explain: he opened the camera, aimed it at the room, the metal box, the scattered fragments of Scarlett’s abandoned life, and took a picture.

He edited the message, attaching the photo, and sent it to the number that had already been deactivated.

There was only one sentence:

“I found it.”

As expected, it failed to send. The number no longer existed.

But he kept typing, as if writing a letter that would never be received:

“I found the box. I read the letter. I saw the pill bottle.”

"Why did you never tell me you were afraid?"

"Why did you let me believe you were invincible?"

His finger hovered over the send button. Then he deleted everything, leaving just the photo.

He stood up, his knee making a faint clicking sound—32, and his body was already starting to betray him. He put the items back in the metal box, closed the lid, but didn’t put it back in the hidden compartment. He carried it out of the apartment.

Downstairs, Carlson was waiting in the car.

"Back to the office?" Carlson asked.

"No," Liam said, placing the metal box on his lap. "Take me to Chelsea. The Sterling Foundation Gallery."

The car drove into the streets. Liam looked at New York passing by. A city he thought he had conquered now felt strange. Every street corner might hide another version of Scarlett— the girl who painted homeless people, who read poetry on the subway, who was scared enough to need sleeping pills.

And he had killed her. With his arrogance, his indifference, his unquestionable love.

The car stopped in front of the gallery. Liam entered, holding the metal box, ignoring the staff’s greetings, and heading straight to the basement storage.

This was where the Foundation’s most “sensitive” works were stored: those of dubious origin, too controversial to be publicly displayed. He entered the code, passed the iris scan, and the heavy metal door slid open.

Cold fluorescent lights flickered on. Rows of easels, covered in white dust cloths.

He went to the back, lifted one of the cloths. Beneath it was the Rubens—or rather, the "Rubens-style" painting. Scarlett’s authentication report from three months ago was pinned to the back of the frame, concluding: "17th-century studio work, not by the master himself."

But his mother, Victoria, insisted it be auctioned as a genuine masterpiece. Insurance value: $4 million.

Liam stared at the painting. It depicted a Biblical scene: Salome holding the head of John the Baptist. The woman’s face was beautiful but cold, the eyes of the severed head empty.

He suddenly remembered what Scarlett had written at the bottom of the authentication report in pencil:

“Some heads are cut off by love.”

At the time, he thought it was just an art historian’s poetic pretension. Now, he understood.

That was a cry for help.

A cry from the abyss he had never heard.

The phone buzzed again. A new email, from an encrypted address, with only one symbol in the subject line: "Ø".

The empty set.

He opened it. No body, just an audio attachment. Downloaded, played.

First, a hum of static, then—

It was his own voice. The recording was clear, from his study.

Liam (tired voice): "… She knows too much, mother. The Rubens, and the Van Dyck before that… she’s suspicious."

Victoria (calm): "Then keep her busy. Find her something to do—charity auctions, social events, or… get her pregnant. Pregnant women don’t have the energy to overthink."

Liam (pause): "Pregnant?"

Victoria: "It’s the best solution. A child will tie her down and show the world a stable family image. After the child is born, if she’s still a problem… we can handle it."

The recording ended.

Duration: 47 seconds. Date stamp: Three months ago, the same week Scarlett submitted the Rubens authentication report.

Liam stood there, the cold air of the warehouse seeping into his bones.

“Handle it.” His mother’s words. "Handle it."

And he hadn’t protested.

Because what had he been thinking at that time? The quarterly financials, the board seat, how to balance his mother’s expectations with his wife’s curiosity.

He had never considered what that word "handle" must have sounded like in Scarlett’s ears.

He had never considered whether she had trembled when hearing this recording.

His phone buzzed again. Another email from the same encrypted address.

This time, there was body text, just one line:

"Second piece of evidence: your silence hurts more than a lie."

Liam Sterling, CEO of Sterling Group, a $15 billion man, sat down slowly, holding a metal box filled with his wife’s abandoned past, in a cold art storage warehouse.

Not because he was tired.

But because his knees had suddenly lost the strength to hold him up.

Outside, the night fell over New York. The city lights flickered on, each one like a tiny sun.

But not one of them could illuminate the darkness inside him.