THE WOMAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
That evening, Adrian took Isabella to his mansion.
The house was enormous, with marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and windows overlooking a garden that looked as if it belonged in a royal palace.
Isabella tried not to stare.
"Your room is upstairs," Adrian said. "Mine is on the opposite side of the house."
"Good. I prefer my space."
"Excellent. We agree on something."
For a moment, they looked at each other.
Then Adrian almost smiled.
Almost.
A housekeeper appeared at the staircase.
"Welcome home, Mrs. Blackwood."
The words sounded strange.
Mrs. Blackwood.
Isabella was still getting used to the idea.
"Thank you," she replied politely.
As the housekeeper led her upstairs, Isabella noticed a framed photograph on a small table.
It showed Adrian standing beside a beautiful woman in a white wedding dress.
They looked happy.
Too happy for two people who supposedly had no secrets worth worrying about.
Isabella stopped.
"Who is she?"
The housekeeper immediately looked away.
"No one you need to concern yourself with, madam."
"Then why is her photograph here?"
Before the woman could answer, Adrian's voice came from behind them.
"Because she's dead."
Isabella turned slowly.
Adrian's expression was unreadable.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"You should be."
He took the photograph from the table and placed it facedown.
Then he walked away.
Isabella watched him disappear down the corridor.
For the first time since accepting the contract, she wondered whether she had made a terrible mistake.
Later that night, unable to sleep, she wandered downstairs for a glass of water.
As she passed the east corridor, she heard something.
A soft sound.
Like someone crying.
Isabella froze.
The sound came from behind the locked door Adrian had forbidden her to enter.
Then a woman's voice whispered through the silence.
"Adrian… please don't leave me here."
Isabella's blood ran cold.
Someone was inside.
Someone who knew her husband's name.
And someone who was supposed to be dead.
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