6. Elena
Elena
Ileave the library lamp burning when I go upstairs.
Habit survives even after love has been struck somewhere vital. Adrian hates coming home to darkness, and some foolish part of me still wants him to look down from our bedroom and know I am here.
I have spent nearly thirty minutes sitting on the rug beside his grandfather’s desk, pressing my fist to my mouth so no one will hear me cry. The argument repeats until every line has worn a groove through me.
Planning parties is not the same as carrying a company.
Then stop.
I did.
Maybe we have both been pretending this marriage still works.
That is the sentence I cannot leave between us overnight.
Tomorrow is our anniversary. I arranged the table where he proposed, chose the wine we drank that night, and persuaded the pastry chef to recreate the ridiculous chocolate dessert Adrian ordered because he was too nervous to read the menu correctly.
I have spent months trying to recover a version of us he did not even remember losing.
I cannot do all that and let one vicious argument become our final word.
So I take off my shoes, smooth my hair, and climb the stairs to save my marriage again.
Our bedroom door is closed.
Then I hear my sister laugh.
The sound is low and breathless, unmistakable even through solid oak.
My body stops before my mind does. One bare foot remains suspended above the final step. My hand closes around the banister hard enough to hurt.
There is a pause.
Adrian says, “Seraphina.”
Not Elena.
Not a question.
Her name.
For one desperate second, I try to build an innocent reason around it.
She came upstairs to apologize. Adrian found her in our room.
They are arguing because she took my dress, my earrings, my perfume.
He is angry on my behalf. In another moment, the door will open and my husband will come looking for me.
Then Seraphina makes a sound I have made beneath him.
The hallway tilts. I put my foot down carefully because falling would make noise, and some cold instinct tells me not to make any yet.
“Say it again,” Seraphina whispers.
“This should not be happening.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Fabric rustles against the other side of the door. The bed gives a soft, familiar protest.
I know that sound.
I chose that mattress because Adrian sleeps badly when he travels.
I replaced the frame after it began squeaking during sex and made us laugh so hard we had to stop.
Every part of this room holds a private history, and my sister is moving through it like she has finally found the one closet I forgot to lock.
My phone is in my hand before I decide to reach for it.
I open the camera, switch to video, and press record.
The screen captures only the closed door and my shaking hand.
“You wanted me,” Seraphina says.
Adrian’s answer is too quiet.
“What?”
“I said I thought you were her.”
My breath catches.
Seraphina laughs again. “At first.”
Silence.
“You knew before you kissed me again.”
“Lower your voice.”
“Why? Elena is downstairs crying over the marriage you just told her doesn’t work.”
“Do not say her name.”
“You asked if I was Elena.”
The phone trembles so violently I brace it with both hands.
“And then you knew,” Seraphina continues. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Three seconds pass.
Four.
Five.
Adrian says, “You are not wrong.”
Something inside me becomes perfectly still.
The grief does not disappear. It changes form. Heat drains from my skin. The shaking stops. Even my breathing settles, as though my body understands before I do that there is no marriage left to save.
I stop recording.
The brass lock is old, installed before Adrian bought the estate. It can be overridden from the hall because the room once belonged to a man whose staff worried he would die alone inside it. I press my thumb against the hidden plate beneath the handle.
The lock releases.
I open the door.
Seraphina is wearing my robe.
The silver dress lies in a shining pool near the bed. My ninth-anniversary dress. The one I wore the first time Adrian fastened that diamond necklace around my throat and later removed it with his teeth.
My sister’s hair is falling from an imitation of my knot. My earrings glitter against her throat. My perfume sits open on the dresser.
Adrian stands beside the bed with his shirt hanging open and his trousers unfastened. His mouth is red. One of Seraphina’s hands is still curled around his belt.
He is not confused now. The lights are on. Her hair is loose enough to show the small crescent scar beside her ear, the one I do not have. Nothing remains hidden except how far they intended to go before I opened the door.
He looks at me.
Horror strips every trace of desire from his face.
“Elena.”
Seraphina turns more slowly. There is no shame in her expression. Only irritation that the moment belongs to someone else now.
I step into the room.
Adrian moves toward me. “This is not what it looks like.”
The lie is so ordinary I almost laugh.
“Don’t.”
He stops.
The anniversary watch lies facedown beside the bed.
I cross to it while neither of them speaks. The gold is warm when I pick it up. Adrian must have worn it until only minutes ago.
Still choosing you.
I place it carefully on the table between them, engraving upright.
Adrian’s face collapses when he reads it.
“You should keep it,” I say. “Apparently, you lost track of who you were married to, at least this will help you keep track of time.”
“Elena, please.”
Seraphina pulls my robe closed over her chest. “He thought I was you.”
I look at her.
We have the same eyes. The same mouth. The same face our mother once dressed alike because strangers found it charming when no one could tell us apart.
“Not long enough,” I say.
Her confidence flickers.
Adrian takes another step. “Let me explain.”
I hold up one hand.
For ten years, two fingers against his wrist meant I need you.
It meant I am here.
Tonight, my open palm means do not touch me.
He obeys.
I walk out of our bedroom without telling either of them what is stored on my phone.
Behind me, Adrian calls my name.
I don’t turn back.