Chapter 6

Chloe's POV

Half a month had passed since Julian left.

During that time, he never returned to Hidden Creek, nor did he call even once.

I had a vague feeling he was avoiding me.

At first, I counted the days because I was relieved. Then I caught myself checking the lift whenever it stopped on my floor.

The contradiction made me angry. I wanted distance from him. I also wanted him to come back as the person I had once believed in and tell me he understood what happened.

Every time the doors opened for someone else, I felt both foolish and safe.

There was no tidy order in which the feelings arrived.

One morning, I went through the photographs on my phone again. I stopped at the unfinished canvas, the one with the small woman near the bottom edge. I remembered how carefully I had drawn her hand around the handle of a suitcase.

Serena said she looked unhappy.

I said she looked ready to leave.

"Then give her a nicer face," my sister had replied, and I had laughed because I thought she was teasing.

The woman was covered by a tree in the finished work.

I found the gallery card inside the notebook. Its website listed a woman who handled questions about the history of paintings: Mara Ellis. I read the page, closed it, and opened it again after lunch.

I was not ready to accuse my sister, especially the sister I believed I had lost. I did not know what I wanted back or whether there was anything left to recover.

I wrote a smaller question.

If an artist had helped make a painting, but it went on display under somebody else's name, was it possible to keep a record of the work they had done?

I did not sign it. I attached one cropped image of the first sketch and said I still had other photographs.

After sending it, I wanted to take it back. I thought about Serena asking why I had gone to a stranger. Then I thought about the woman with the suitcase and left the message where it was.

Then again, maybe that was for the best.

I had no idea how to face him either.

Every time I remembered that night, my face burned furiously, and I wished the ground would swallow me whole.

One afternoon, the doorbell rang out of the blue.

I opened the door to find a sharp, professional-looking woman in a tailored suit standing outside.

"Good afternoon, Miss Sinclair. I am Mr. Vance's secretary, Lynn."

She dipped into a slight, respectful bow, her demeanor polished and attentive.

"There is a charity auction tonight. Mr. Vance instructed me to deliver your gown and brought a styling team to prepare your full look."

He wanted me at a charity auction?

Before I could process the news, Lynn clapped her hands.

A stream of people filed in, carrying cases of all shapes and sizes.

I parted my lips, watching dumbfounded as they entered.

Case after case was opened and neatly arranged. An overwhelming array of skincare and cosmetics dazzled my eyes.

There was an entire box of lipsticks alone, and a whole rack of evening gowns was rolled in.

Before I could react, gentle hands were already steering me inside by the shoulders.

"These are internationally renowned stylists," Lynn introduced from the side, offering a practiced, professional smile. "Mr. Vance instructed that Miss Sinclair simply follow their lead."

My steps faltered slightly.

Though I wasn't as dazzling as Serena, I wasn't stupid.

I understood the unspoken meaning behind her words.

I had no right to an opinion; I only needed to sit there and let them manipulate me like a porcelain doll.

Julian didn't trust my taste. He was terrified I would humiliate Serena Sinclair's name.

I lowered my head, offering a bitter, self-deprecating smile where no one could see.

If I were Serena...

Would he ever treat the real Serena this way?

Of course not.

To the real Serena, he would have softly asked what color she preferred, what silhouette she fancied.

I took a seat in front of the vanity.

The stylists swarmed around me, their hands moving with practiced efficiency.

Cleansing, skincare, makeup, hair.

The face in the mirror clearly shared the same bone structure, yet under their skillful touch, it grew increasingly foreign.

My brows were sculpted into crisp, commanding arches; a striking crimson was swept across my lips.

Even the submissive timidity in my eyes was concealed beneath the dramatic shadow and liner.

That was Serena Sinclair.

Julian Vance's Serena.

Finally, I slipped into the gown Lynn had brought.

It was a moon-white satin evening dress, cut so flawlessly it seemed custom-tailored for my frame.

On my feet were stilettos with heels so razor-thin and high I had never dared wear them in all my twenty-odd years.

The stylists stepped back, a collective murmur of admiration escaping them.

I stared quietly at my reflection in the mirror.

Exquisite features, bold red lips, earthy eyeshadow shimmering with refined elegance.

Noble. Graceful. Every man's dream goddess.

This wasn't Chloe Sinclair.

Chloe Sinclair didn't deserve to be this beautiful.

"Miss Sinclair, please head downstairs," Lynn said, glancing at her watch. "Mr. Vance is already waiting for you below."

Julian was here.

My heart instantly skipped a beat.

I turned to leave, but suddenly stopped.

"Is something wrong?" Lynn looked at me, puzzled.

"Just a moment."

I walked back into the bedroom and pulled open the nightstand drawer.

Tucked into the far corner was a bottle of perfume—Serena's signature scent.

Serena had worn it for years, never once switching brands.

When Julian had someone clear out all of Serena's belongings, they had probably overlooked this single bottle.

I stared at it, hesitating for a long time.

Finally, I reached out and picked it up.

Pressing the nozzle, a fine mist settled over the side of my neck and wrists.

As the familiar fragrance bloomed in the air, I closed my eyes.

I knew that something was quietly sprouting deep within my heart.

That something was hope.

Before the night turned frightening, I had heard a softness in Julian's voice I once longed to hear. It was directed at Serena. Remembering it now made me ashamed of the old wish, but I did not mistake that wish for consent to what followed.

And from it, a humble, pathetic wish had taken root.

One day, I wanted Julian to smile at me just once.

Just as he had smiled at Serena—brow relaxed, eyes melting with tender warmth.

Even if the woman he thought he was smiling at was Serena Sinclair.

I only wanted a single gentle smile from him. That was all.

I told myself in my heart:

Anything more doesn't belong to me, and I won't ask for it.

I thought I had drawn a clear line.

Just a smile. I wouldn't let my heart fall.

Yet how could I forget? My heart had fallen for him all those years ago.

I had simply snapped that crush with my own hands and buried it deep in the dirt.

But things buried aren't necessarily dead.

Clutching the perfume bottle, I stared into the mirror.

For a moment, the perfume brought back a wish so old I could have mistaken it for instinct: if I looked enough like Serena, perhaps he would be gentle.

I set the bottle down.

The auction invitation on the table included Serena's gallery among its donors. I recognized the name now. Mara had answered that morning.

She could not judge a painting from one cropped picture, she wrote. If I wanted to continue, she would need to understand what part of the work I had done. She asked permission to compare the image with the gallery's existing records. She would not contact the family without telling me first.

I had not expected to be asked permission.

For ten minutes, I did nothing with the message. Then I sent two more photographs: the charcoal figure and the first layer of blue. I kept the ones showing Serena's face to myself.

I was frightened of what the comparison might mean. I was also tired of being unable to say that I had held a brush without feeling I was betraying someone.

The notebook went into my bag beside a folded tissue. I had written only the date of the exhibition and a question about the old study. It was hardly the beginning of an investigation.

Before leaving, I looked at the perfume bottle again.

I had already used it. The scent would reach Julian before any explanation I could offer. I wanted to scrub it away, and I wanted him to recognize it and look at me gently. Both wishes embarrassed me.

"Miss Sinclair?" Lynn called.

I closed the bag.

"Coming."

In the lift, I watched the floor numbers change. There were still marks from my hairbrush on the skin behind my ear, and the shoes pinched my toes.

I had spent the afternoon being made ready for a room full of people.

I wished, absurdly, that I could arrive there with Maxine instead.