CHAPTER 5
921 Words
The Mask Cracks
“Secrets do not stay hidden in a house built of mirrors.”
For three days, Anya basically lived in a silent hell.
During the daytime Anya moved through Julian’s big house, playing the perfect wife just like Julian trained her to be. Smiling when expected, nodding at his orders, dressed in fancy silks and flashy diamonds that honestly just felt like a costume. But then night would come, and it would all fall apart. She would hold on to the photo of Clara Beaumont like it is a lifeline, humming the lullaby through choked-up whispers, crying into her pillow.
Every moment with Julian was heavier now, sharper. She caught that look in his eyes, sharp like he was dissecting every word she said. Even his dumbest questions felt loaded, as if he was trying to trip her up. He never had to say a thing. The way he just sat there, not talking but just looking. That is a look of real accusation.
She became careful. Too careful. She hummed only in her mind, never aloud. She touched the locket only when alone. She opened her jewelry box only in darkness, her fingers brushing the note and the photograph like contraband.
And yet, fear coiled around her. For in Julian’s house, nothing stayed hidden for long.
On the fourth evening, as she sat in the drawing room pretending to read a book as she glanced through thinking about other things, Julian entered the room with his charming looks. His footsteps could be heard in every corner of the room.
“My darling,” he said warmly, “I have invited guests for dinner. A small gathering of investors, a few ladies from the higher society circle. You will have to look as elegant as always.”
Her stomach sank. She hated these dinners. They were theater, and she was the showpiece.
“Yes, Julian.”
He smiled, brushing his lips over her hair in a way that sent chills to run down her spines. “That’s my good girl,” he said.
Meanwhile the dining hall was set with lights shining bright and filled with fake laughter. Glasses chimed, forks scraping the plates, and people having fake conversations like they always do. Julian sat at the head of the table, like the perfect host.
Anya played her part of the drama as the perfect wife. But her mind was far away, going back to Charles’s eyes, back to the photograph hidden upstairs and to the name that beat in her chest like a second heart: Annabelle.
“Mrs. Vance,” one of the rich ladies called out suddenly, “Do you ever visit your family?, I cannot imagine such beauty is unconnected to a fine lineage,” she said.
The question struck like lightning. For a breath, Anya froze.
Julian’s expression did not change a bit, but under the table he grabbed Anya’s hand very tightly. “My wife’s family are simple people, long departed. We prefer not to dwell on such things.” he replied on her behalf
The woman murmured apologies. The table moved on. But Julian’s grip remained long after, bruising, punishing.
Anya lowered her head, her hands trembling in her lap.
Later, when all the guests were gone, Julian asked the servants to leave. The mansion fell into silence.
He poured two glasses of brandy, his movements unhurried. “You seemed distracted this evening.”
“I was only tired.”
“Mm.” He handed her a glass, watching her with accusations showing on his face. “Strange, isn’t it?, How often you are tired lately. It is as if your mind carries a weight I cannot see.”
Her breath quickened. She forced a sip of the drink to hide it.
Julian stepped closer, his presence a storm. “Tell me, Anya… is there something you wish to confess?”
Her heart beat wildly. Did he know?, Had someone seen her at St. Cecilia’s?, Had a servant betrayed her?
“I… no. Nothing.”
His smile flickered not gone, but thinner, sharper. “Good. Because secrets, my dear, are very dangerous. They rot marriages. They destroy trust.” He leaned so close that she could fell his breath on her cheek. “And you would not want to destroy me, would you?”
Her throat closed. She shook her head. “No, Julian.”
He studied her another long moment, the silence so heavy it pressed into her bones. Then he straightened, sipping his brandy, his charm sliding back into place like a mask.
“Good girl,” he said again, like nothing ever happened now.
When she finally went back to her room, Anya layed onto the bed, her hands shaking violently. She pulled open the jewelry box, looking for the photograph, to remind herself that she was not Julian’s creation.
It was gone.
The note, too.
Her heart stopped.
The velvet lining was bare. Empty.
Her breath came in ragged gasps. Someone had been in her room. Someone had found her truth.
If it was not Julian himself, then it was someone who would put it into his hands.
She held on to the locket desperately, tears flowing hot and helplessly.
For the first time since meeting Charles, hope felt like a blade against her throat.
Anya has begun to awaken to her true self but her secrets are no longer safe. Julian may already know, and the fragile proof of her past has vanished from her hiding place.
- Writer
