Chapter 3

By the time Tessa drove me back to the house Daniel and I had bought as our future home, it was fully dark.

That morning, I had left believing I would return as his wife.

Now I was here for my passport, my mother’s portrait and the Milan residency letter I had hidden five years ago.

The front door was locked.

I opened it with my key.

A lamp burned beside the sofa. An empty champagne glass rested on the entryway table.

“Did Daniel come back?” Tessa asked.

“I don’t know.”

I went straight to the studio Daniel had designed for me when we bought the house.

He had called it my room—the one place in our future home that would always belong to me.

The door stood open.

Champagne stained the floor. Broken glass covered the carpet, and the garment bag for my reception gown lay empty beside the mirror.

My mother’s portrait had been slashed through the center.

My knees weakened. Tessa caught my arm before I stepped onto the glass.

During my mother’s final months, I had painted her whenever she was strong enough to sit beside the window.

Now a tear ran from her painted cheek to her throat.

“Take pictures,” I told Tessa. “Before we touch anything.”

A key turned in the front door.

Sloane entered wearing my reception gown beneath Daniel’s jacket. She kicked off her heels and walked directly toward my studio as if she had done it many times before.

Then she saw us.

“What are you doing here?”

I stared at the key in her hand.

A blue enamel key chain hung from it.

Six months ago, Daniel had watched me search the entire house for that key and sworn he had never seen it.

“Where did you get that?”

“Daniel gave it to me.”

“When?”

“Months ago. I helped with his father and handled deliveries.”

I looked from the key to my mother’s ruined portrait.

The damage had begun when Daniel gave her access.

“You wore my wedding dress in here.”

“Daniel stayed at the hotel. He said I could change here.”

“He built this room for me.”

For the first time, Sloane’s expression flickered.

Then she looked at the portrait and shrugged.

“The frame fell while I was changing.”

“The canvas was slashed.”

“It’s a painting, Elena. You can make another one.”

I bent to lift the broken frame.

Glass sliced into my palm.

Blood struck the floor. Tessa wrapped her scarf around my hand.

Sloane’s gaze rested on the blood for one second.

Then she stepped back to protect the dress.

Even in my home, wearing my wedding gown, she cared more about staining the fabric than watching me bleed.

I took my passport, the Milan letter and what remained of my mother’s portrait.

At the door, I looked at the key in Sloane’s hand.

Daniel had not made her a spare.

He had given her mine.

I had come back for my things.

I left knowing I would never come back for him.