Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Beatrice
Clara’s breath hitched as she picked up the stiff cream-colored card. The ink was fresh, the calligraphy elegant and sharp, bearing a date from exactly three years ago. Beatrice Vance. Julian’s first wife, whom the local newspapers claimed had vanished into thin air during a sailing trip off the coast of Maine. The authorities had never found a body, and Julian had spent two years in mourning before meeting Clara at an art gallery in downtown Boston. But holding this invitation in her gloved hand, standing in the drafty, unheated corridor of a venue Julian himself had insisted they book, Clara felt the sickening weight of a meticulously constructed lie.
"What are you doing out here?"
Julian’s voice boomed from behind her, stripped of all warmth. Clara spun around, dropping the invitation to the floor. Julian stood at the end of the dark hallway, his silhouette framed by the warm golden light of the banquet hall. Little Leo was no longer in his arms; he must have left the boy with a relative. Julian’s hands were stuffed deep into his pockets, but Clara could see the muscles in his forearms twitching with barely contained rage.
"You lied to me," Clara said, her voice shaking but resolute as she pointed down at the card on the floor. "You said Beatrice drowned. You said her family estate was sold off years ago. Why is there a fresh invitation with her name on it sitting in a locked wing of the venue you chose?"
Julian took two slow, deliberate steps toward her, the shadows swallowing his face piece by piece. "You have no idea what you’ve walked into, Clara. Some doors are locked for a reason. You should have stayed in the ballroom."
"I am not a prisoner, Julian!" she yelled, stepping back until her spine hit the cold wood paneling of the wall.
"You are whatever I need you to be," Julian whispered, stopping just inches from her face. His breath smelled faintly of scotch and wintermint. "And right now, you need to turn around, walk back in there, and pretend you didn't find that card. Because if you don't..."
May you like
Julian didn't finish the sentence. Instead, the heavy oak doors behind Clara swung shut with a violent slam of their own accord, plunging them into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
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