Chapter 4
For the first time, Charles's life started to crack.
The call to Astoria was like an invisible thorn, piercing right through his reality.
He sent people to investigate, pulling every string he could to track down the source of that number.
But there was nothing. No one behind it, no record of the number at all. It was just a disposable, anonymous burner phone, the kind he could pick up on any street corner in Astoria.
The trail went cold.
Next, news of the yacht accident hit. The rescue team recovered nothing but wreckage and her signature silk scarf, the one Elena always wore.
Every clue led to just one conclusion: Elena was gone.
Charles stood alone in his empty study, clutching the signed divorce papers in his hand.
He hadn't even had a chance to file them. Legally, Elena was still his wife.
His mind was a mess.
On one side, there were the cold, hard facts. On the other hand, the noisy background of Astoria's streets, and that barely audible, almost phantom-like whisper, as if it were just a trick of his mind.
He yanked his tie off in frustration.
He didn't know why she wouldn't answer or say anything. And why it was Astoria.
Suddenly, it hit him that Elena had majored in art history in college, with a minor in the Valerius language.
Her thesis was all about nineteenth-century Impressionism in Valerius.
She'd always said her biggest dream was to visit the Vault Museum in Astoria and see Monet's water lilies in person.
All those little details he'd never cared about before suddenly tangled up in his mind, spreading like wild weeds and taking over all at once.
His phone buzzed. His grandpa was calling.
He barely answered before Robby's thunderous voice came crashing through the line. "Charles! You damn fool! Was it you who pushed Elena to her death?"
"Grandpa, please, I—" Charles stammered, his voice shaky.
"Enough! I should never have trusted your nonsense three years ago. Now look, because of you, a living, breathing person is dead. You've disgraced the Sterling family! Get back here, right this instant."
The call ended with a furious slam. Charles clenched his phone, veins bulging on the back of his hand.
Vivian walked in carefully, carrying a cup of warm milk.
"Charles, don't be too sad. Maybe Elena just... couldn't see a way out for a moment," she said softly.
Her eyes were red, her voice trembling. She played the part of the caring, heartbroken little sister perfectly.
Charles looked at her, at the face he'd been in love with for a decade.
He used to see nothing but purity and sweetness in her face.
But now, in those teary eyes, he caught a barely concealed sense of relief, as if a weight had finally been lifted.
A wave of irritation rose up in him. "Leave. I need some time alone."
Vivian's expression stiffened. "Charles..."
"Get out." His voice was quiet, but icy and absolute.
Vivian bit her lip, tears streaming down as she turned away, looking deeply aggrieved.
The door closed behind her. Charles slumped onto the couch, feeling completely drained.
He closed his eyes. But it wasn't Vivian's tear-streaked face that flashed through his mind. It was Elena.
Elena, smiling at him after signing the divorce papers.
She said, "I wish you and Vivian all the best."
She said, "Maybe it's just because I won't ever have to wait for you again."
Her eyes were as calm as a bottomless lake.
Back then, he thought she felt it was a relief.
But now, looking back, it felt more like a kind of farewell, a final goodbye he couldn't comprehend.
He shot his eyes open, snatched his car keys, and rushed out.
He was on his way to Elena's apartment.
He had to know what she was thinking.
He had to know where she was.
But when he used the spare key to open the door to the apartment Elena used to call home, the place was deserted.
Every trace of her was gone. It was as if she'd never been there at all.
The only thing left behind was an envelope, sitting alone on the living room table.
Charles walked over, his hands trembling as he opened it.
Inside, there wasn't a letter, just a photo. Their wedding photo, him and Elena.
Elena's face had been carefully cut out with a blade, leaving the rest of the picture untouched.