Chapter 8 - The Portrait's Secret
Julian slammed his fist against the heavy oak door, the loud bang echoing down the empty third-floor corridor like a gunshot. "Who's in there? Show yourself!" he demanded, his voice laced with a sudden, desperate fury that shattered his usual composure.
The scratching stopped instantly. The giggling dissolved into a chilling, hollow silence.
"Master Julian, shouting won't make the dead unlock the door," Arthur said quietly, stepping back into the shadows. "You know as well as I do whose room this used to be before the fire."
Marisa stood up, brushing the dust from her black skirt, her eyes narrowing as she studied Julian’s rigid posture. "Whose room, Arthur? Who are you talking about?"
Julian shot Arthur a murderous glare, warning him with a silent look not to speak another word. But the old estate manager had reached his breaking point. He pointed a withered finger toward the grand oil portrait hanging diagonally across the hall—a massive canvas covered by a heavy dust sheet.
"Pull the sheet down, Marisa," Arthur commanded softly. "See for yourself who Julian married in spirit before he brought Eleanor into this house."
Marisa didn't hesitate. She stepped across the narrow hall, grabbed the dusty fabric, and yanked it downward. The sheet fell away in a billow of gray dust, revealing a stunning, life-sized portrait of a young woman with long wavy blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and a heartbreakingly familiar smile. She was wearing a strapless white wedding gown that looked identical to the one Eleanor had worn tonight.
"Clara," Marisa gasped, stumbling backward as the name escaped her lips. "Clara Vanguard... she looks almost exactly like Eleanor."
"Not almost, Marisa," Arthur corrected bitterly. "Eleanor was chosen by Julian specifically because she was Clara's cousin—the only living template he could find to replace the bride he lost in the fire seven years ago."
Julian’s face went completely bloodless. He stepped between Marisa and the portrait, his hands trembling slightly as he stared at the painted face of the woman he had supposedly mourned for a decade.
"That's enough," Julian snarled, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "This conversation is over. We are going downstairs right now."
"Is that why you brought Valentina here?" Marisa pressed, refusing to back down. She stood her ground, her protective instincts flaring up like wildfire. "Is Valentina Clara's child, Julian? Is that why her existence has been kept a secret in the servants' quarters until tonight?"
Julian opened his mouth to answer, but before a single word could escape, the heavy iron deadbolt on the attic door behind them suddenly clicked.
Clack.
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The lock slid open all by itself. Slowly, the heavy oak door creaked inward, revealing a pitch-black interior from which a freezing gust of wind rushed out, carrying the faint, unmistakable scent of burning ash and sweet lavender perfume.
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