Chapter 4: Secrets in the Guest Wing
861 Words
The Valerio estate was silent at night.
Not the peaceful kind of silence—this one echoed with old money, repressed memories, and too many locked doors.
I couldn’t sleep.
Maybe it was the kiss.
Maybe it was Luca’s words echoing in my head.
Or maybe… it was the way Ares had held my hand in the dark like he meant it.
I wrapped a silk robe over my nightgown and padded barefoot through the marble halls. Everything smelled like lavender and antique wood.
I wasn’t sure where I was going—until I ended up in the guest wing.
The one I was told not to enter.
It was different here.
Less polished. No fresh flowers or designer rugs. The hallway lights were dimmed. Old paintings lined the walls—mostly of men in suits with cold eyes and colder smiles.
At the very end of the corridor was a door slightly ajar.
I shouldn’t have opened it.
But I did.
Inside was a room that looked frozen in time. Dusty shelves. A chessboard mid-game. A single twin bed with navy sheets and a cracked photo frame on the nightstand.
Ares.
Younger. Smiling.
And beside him—a girl.
Blonde. Laughing. Eyes full of light.
The back of the photo had one word:
“Clara.”
“Elara.”
I gasped and turned.
Ares stood in the doorway, shirt undone, tie draped around his neck. His expression was unreadable.
“I—I couldn’t sleep. I was just…”
He walked past me and picked up the photo. “This room isn’t part of the tour.”
“Is she someone important?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then he said, “She was.”
Silence fell like a thick blanket.
“Clara was my fiancée,” he said at last. “She died. Five years ago.”
I swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
“She drowned in this lake. Right outside this house.” His voice was like stone. “I was supposed to meet her that night. I didn’t.”
My heart twisted.
“She waited. Alone. And she didn’t make it back.”
“Ares…”
His jaw clenched. “They said it was an accident. But I knew better. I was the reason she was there.”
He set the photo down with care, like it might break.
Then he turned to me.
“This is why I don’t do love stories. They end in graves.”
Back in my room, I couldn’t sleep.
Clara.
The way he said her name.
The haunted look in his eyes.
I understood now. The walls he’d built weren’t just for show. They were shields. Against guilt. Against pain. Against me.
And yet… the kiss still lingered.
Even ghosts couldn’t erase that.
The next morning, I was awakened by a knock.
Ares’ assistant, Mara, stood outside with a stack of designer bags.
“Good morning, Mrs. Valerio. You have fittings today. The Forbes ‘Couple of the Year’ cover shoot is in two days.”
I blinked. “Cover… what?”
She smiled. “Didn’t he tell you?”
Of course not.
Ares never told me anything.
Downstairs, I found him in the sunroom, flipping through a newspaper.
“You forgot to mention we’re doing a magazine cover together.”
He sipped his espresso. “I didn’t forget. I postponed the stress.”
“You know I’m not a model, right?”
“You don’t have to be. You just have to look like you belong next to me.”
My jaw tightened. “That’s rich, coming from someone who keeps his dead fiancée’s room untouched like a shrine.”
He froze.
I regretted the words the moment I said them.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “That was cruel.”
He set down his cup.
“No. You’re right.” His voice was low. “I should have told you about Clara. About everything.”
I sat across from him. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because the last time I opened up to someone, she drowned.”
I reached for his hand, cautiously. “I’m not her, Ares.”
He looked at me really looked at me for the first time in days.
“No,” he said. “You’re not.”
Later that day, during fittings, I stood in front of a full-length mirror wearing a gown that screamed wealth and status.
Ares walked in unannounced, arms crossed, eyes scanning me slowly.
“Turn,” he said.
I rolled my eyes and spun half-heartedly.
He nodded. “It’ll work.”
“Gee, thanks for the enthusiastic compliment.”
He stepped closer. “It’s not the dress, Elara. It’s the fire in your eyes.”
I froze.
And then, as if something had shifted in the air, he added softly:
“Don’t let them dim it.”
That night, I found a single envelope slipped under my bedroom door.
Inside was a note.
“I’m sorry. For the room. For the silence. For using you. —A”
It wasn’t romantic.
It wasn’t a love letter.
But it was real.
And for Ares Valerio?
That meant everything.
- Writer
