Chapter 2
Dinner was quiet. Julian Sterling occasionally served me food, asking if work had been tiring. I responded mechanically, my mind drifting far away.
Three years. Our conversations were always the same. Work, weather, health. Never about our feelings, never about our future. We were like two polite, distant roommates.
Late at night, Julian Sterling held me as usual until he fell asleep, his breathing even. But I was wide awake. His body’s warmth felt alien, as if he were just a stranger lying beside me.
Getting up for water in the living room, I suddenly stopped outside the study. A faint draft, carrying a stale scent of old perfume and dust, wafted from behind the heavy bookshelf. I’d lived in this house for three years and had never noticed such a current of air.
I approached the bookshelf, tapping gently with my fingertips. Most of it was solid, but the third shelf on the right sounded hollow. Mimicking a scene from a movie, I pulled out that row of hardcover History of Architecture books. Sure enough, I found a subtle indentation on the inner wall. With a strong push, the bookshelf silently slid open, revealing a hidden room.
Everything inside was frozen in time. Eleanor Reed’s favorite perfume sat on the vanity, her preferred floral bedspread covered the bed, and intimate photos of her and Julian Sterling hung on the wall. This room held no trace of me.
I stood in this territory belonging to the ‘dead,’ suddenly feeling the silk pajamas Julian had bought me were nothing but a grotesque funeral shroud.
“What are you doing?”
Julian Sterling’s voice came from behind me. Gone was his usual tenderness, replaced by cold vigilance. I slowly turned, seeing him barefoot in the doorway, his eyes filled with a raw panic I’d never witnessed, and… a chilling flicker of murderous intent. It was the look of a wild animal whose territory had been violated.
“This place,” he enunciated each word, his voice heavy with suppressed rage, “is not for you.”
I looked at him and suddenly laughed, tears welling up in my eyes. For three years, it was the first time I’d seen such genuine emotion in his eyes. Not scripted affection, but real, unadulterated fury, ignited for another woman.
“Julian Sterling,” I pointed at the photos in the room, “isn’t our home a little crowded?”
“Let’s go. Back to bed.”
Julian Sterling walked over and closed the secret room door. His hand gently stroked my back, guiding me back to the bedroom as usual. I quietly followed him back to bed. He wrapped his arms around me again, his chin resting on the top of my head.
“Harper,” he murmured my name softly. Again and again. As if trying to hypnotize himself, or maybe even me.
I closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. At that moment, I finally understood. The woman in his arms was never Harper Hayes. It was just a substitute with Eleanor Reed’s similar features. A living, breathing mannequin.