CHAPTER 6 The Morning She Was Not There
1920 Words
Clara Beaumont awoke with an unfamiliar heaviness pressing against her body.
For several long moments, she remained still, her eyes closed as she listened to the silence around her. Usually, the Beaumont estate greeted the morning with quiet activity. She would hear servants moving through the corridors, distant voices from the kitchens, or the soft hum of preparations beginning for the day.
Today there was nothing.
The silence felt strange.
It settled over the room like a heavy blanket, making the air itself seem difficult to breathe.
A dull ache pulsed behind her eyes.
She slowly inhaled, expecting the familiar scent of fresh roses arranged beside her bed. Instead, the faint fragrance of lilies mixed with the perfume she had worn the previous evening.
Her stomach tightened.
Something felt wrong.
She opened her eyes.
Sunlight streamed through the curtains, far brighter than she expected. She frowned and turned toward the clock on the bedside table.
The hour made her heart skip.
She had slept much later than she ever had before.
A smile instinctively touched her lips.
Today.
It was finally here.
Today she would marry Lucien Devereaux.
Months of preparation had led to this moment. Every fitting, every rehearsal, every conversation about flowers, music, and guests would finally become memories by the end of the day.
Tomorrow she would wake up as Clara Devereaux.
The thought filled her heart with quiet joy.
"I'm finally going to marry him," she whispered to herself.
She pushed the blankets aside and tried to sit up.
The room immediately spun around her.
A sharp wave of dizziness swept through her body.
She grabbed the edge of the headboard before she could fall back onto the mattress.
"What..."
She closed her eyes until the spinning slowed.
Her arms felt unusually heavy.
Even lifting her head required effort.
Clara rarely became sick.
Even during stressful periods she always managed to remain energetic.
This was different.
Her body felt as though every ounce of strength had been drained away during the night.
She sat quietly, trying to remember the previous evening.
Fragments returned slowly.
The rehearsal dinner.
Laughter filling the ballroom.
Her father raising a glass during his short toast.
Sophie teasing her about becoming Mrs. Devereaux.
Lucien smiling as he kissed her forehead before leaving.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Mrs. Devereaux."
She had laughed.
"I'm still Miss Beaumont."
"Only for a few more hours."
The memory made her smile.
Then another memory surfaced.
Her bedroom.
A soft knock at the door.
Her mother entering with a gentle smile.
"You've had a long day," Margaux had said.
"You need to rest."
Clara remembered laughing.
"I don't think I'll sleep tonight."
"Oh, you will."
Her mother had placed a warm cup of herbal tea into her hands.
"Drink this."
"It will help you sleep."
The tea...
She frowned.
It had tasted unusually bitter.
Not unpleasant.
Just different.
She remembered finishing it anyway.
She remembered lying back against the pillows.
Her mother brushing a strand of hair away from her face.
"Sleep well, my daughter."
Then...
Nothing.
Her smile disappeared.
There was nothing after that.
No dreams.
No memories.
Only darkness.
A chill slowly crept down her spine.
She reached for her phone on the bedside table.
The screen lit immediately.
Dozens of notifications appeared.
Then hundreds.
Messages.
Missed calls.
Emails.
Social media alerts.
Her eyebrows knitted together.
Why would everyone be contacting her this early?
She opened the first message.
Congratulations, Clara. Yesterday was absolutely beautiful.
Her heartbeat slowed.
Yesterday?
She frowned and opened another.
The wedding was unforgettable. Wishing you and Lucien a lifetime of happiness.
Another.
Congratulations, Mrs. Devereaux.
Another.
You looked breathtaking.
Clara stared at the screen without blinking.
Her fingers became cold.
Yesterday?
Wedding?
Mrs. Devereaux?
The words no longer made sense.
"No..."
She quickly opened her photo gallery.
The most recent pictures were from the rehearsal dinner.
A photograph with Sophie.
One of her father smiling.
Another of Lucien standing beside her beneath the crystal chandeliers.
Nothing else.
No wedding photographs.
No ceremony.
No reception.
No pictures with Lucien after the rehearsal.
Her breathing became shallow.
"This... isn't possible."
She immediately searched for Lucien's name and pressed call.
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
She waited, trying to calm herself.
Lucien always answered.
Especially today.
The ringing stopped.
Voicemail.
She frowned and called again.
Voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
A fourth time.
No answer.
By the fifth attempt, fear had begun replacing confusion.
Lucien had never ignored her calls.
Not once.
She dialed his private number.
It rang only once before disconnecting.
Her hands started trembling.
"No..."
She whispered the word as though saying it quietly might somehow make everything normal again.
There had to be an explanation.
Perhaps he was already at the cathedral.
Perhaps everyone was simply too busy preparing for the ceremony.
Yes.
That had to be it.
She forced herself to stand.
Her legs shook beneath her weight.
She steadied herself against the dressing table and slowly looked into the mirror.
The woman staring back at her hardly looked like a bride.
Dark circles rested beneath her eyes.
Her carefully styled hair had fallen loose during the night.
Her face looked pale.
Exhausted.
Almost as though she had slept for days instead of one night.
A disturbing thought entered her mind.
Drugged.
She immediately rejected it.
"No."
Her own family would never...
Would they?
Her gaze drifted toward the empty teacup still resting on the bedside table.
The bitter taste returned to her memory.
Her mother's gentle smile.
"You need to rest."
Clara wrapped her arms around herself.
"No..."
She refused to believe it.
There had to be another explanation.
There simply had to be.
She picked up her phone again and searched for the Beaumont residence.
The familiar number had never failed her before.
After several rings, the call connected.
"Beaumont residence."
Relief washed over Clara.
"Mrs. Evelyn."
The elderly housekeeper gasped.
"Miss Clara?"
"Yes. It's me."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
"Mrs. Evelyn, where is everyone?"
Silence answered.
Not ordinary silence.
The kind that came from someone struggling to decide whether to speak the truth.
"Mrs. Evelyn?"
"I... I thought..."
"You thought what?"
The older woman's voice trembled.
"I thought you had already..."
Clara's heartbeat quickened.
"Already what?"
Another painful pause followed.
"Please answer me."
"They've all left, Miss."
"Left?"
"Yes."
Clara frowned.
"Where did they go?"
"The Devereaux estate."
Confusion flooded her mind.
"The Devereaux estate? Why?"
Mrs. Evelyn drew a shaky breath.
"I... I shouldn't be the one to tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"I'm sorry."
The line went dead.
Clara stared at the phone.
"No..."
She called again.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
By the fourth attempt, the house phone rang endlessly without anyone picking up.
Fear tightened around her chest.
Whatever had happened...
Everyone knew about it except her.
Ignoring the weakness still lingering in her body, Clara hurried toward the bedroom door.
The hallway outside was empty.
Yesterday it had been alive with decorators, photographers, florists, and wedding planners rushing from room to room.
Now every door stood open.
Every corridor echoed with silence.
She walked faster.
"Mother?"
No answer.
"Father?"
Only the sound of her own footsteps returned.
She continued down the hallway.
Fresh flowers still decorated the tables, but several had already begun to wilt.
Half-melted candles remained in their holders.
Someone had started cleaning after a celebration.
But the work had been abandoned halfway.
It looked as though everyone had left in a hurry.
Clara descended the grand staircase.
The magnificent ballroom came into view.
Only yesterday it had looked like something from a fairy tale.
White roses had covered every column.
Crystal chandeliers had reflected thousands of tiny lights.
The orchestra had rehearsed from the stage while guests admired the decorations.
Now the room looked strangely empty.
Rows of chairs had been stacked together.
Loose flower petals covered parts of the marble floor.
Several workers were quietly removing the remaining decorations.
One of them looked up.
The color drained from his face the moment he saw Clara.
Without saying a word, he lowered his head and hurried out through a side entrance.
The others quickly followed.
Within seconds...
She was alone.
Clara stood frozen.
Why was everyone avoiding her?
Her breathing became uneven.
She slowly crossed the ballroom, her footsteps echoing through the vast room.
Then she noticed something lying on one of the nearby tables.
A glossy magazine.
It looked freshly printed.
Almost absentmindedly, she reached for it.
The headline stretched across the front page.
THE WEDDING OF THE YEAR
A small smile almost appeared.
Perhaps it was simply announcing today's ceremony.
She turned the magazine toward herself.
Her smile disappeared.
The photograph filled nearly the entire cover.
Lucien.
Standing beneath the cathedral arch.
Wearing the custom tuxedo they had chosen together.
Looking happier than she had ever seen him.
A lump formed in Clara's throat.
Her eyes shifted toward the bride standing beside him.
The ivory gown.
The diamond veil.
The bouquet of white roses.
The Beaumont heirloom earrings.
Everything belonged to her.
Everything...
Except the woman wearing them.
Clara's hands began to shake.
"No..."
She leaned closer.
The bride had her face.
Her eyes.
Her smile.
To anyone else, it was Clara Beaumont.
But Clara knew that face better than anyone.
She had seen it since childhood.
It belonged to her identical twin sister.
Claire.
The magazine slipped from her trembling fingers and struck the marble floor.
She could barely breathe.
"No..."
This time the word came out as a broken whisper.
Her knees weakened.
She caught herself against the table before collapsing.
Her eyes returned to the magazine.
Beneath the photograph was a single caption.
LUCIEN DEVEREAUX MARRIES CLARA BEAUMONT IN A FAIRY-TALE CEREMONY.
They had not changed the name.
To the world...
The woman beside Lucien was Clara.
Her identity had been stolen.
Suddenly every memory from the previous night crashed together.
The bitter tea.
Her mother's gentle insistence.
The overwhelming drowsiness.
The darkness that followed.
Her breathing became ragged.
"They..."
She couldn't finish the sentence.
She didn't want to.
Because speaking the truth aloud would make it real.
Her own family...
Had put her to sleep.
So another woman...
Could marry the man she loved.
Fresh tears streamed down her face.
Lucien's promises echoed painfully through her mind.
"No matter what happens, I'll always choose you."
"Tomorrow changes everything."
"I can't wait to call you my wife."
Her heart broke all over again.
Did he know?
Did he realize the woman walking toward him wasn't Clara?
She wanted to believe he would know.
He knew the smallest things about her.
The tiny scar on her wrist.
The way she bit her lower lip when she was nervous.
The quiet laugh she tried to hide whenever he teased her.
How could he not know?
Unless...
No.
She refused to think any further.
Not until she knew the truth.
Slowly, she bent down and picked up the magazine once more.
She stared at Lucien's smiling face.
A tear rolled silently down her cheek.
"I need answers," she whispered.
"I need to know whether you were deceived..."
"...or whether you betrayed me."
She closed the magazine and held it tightly against her chest.
The woman who had awakened that morning believing she was about to become a bride no longer existed.
In her place stood a woman whose life had been stolen while she slept.
And before another sunset came, Clara Beaumont vowed she would uncover the truth—no matter who it destroyed
- Writer
