That night, I dream of drowning.
I wake in a sweat, throat dry, lungs aching. Julian sleeps beside me, peaceful, arms flung across the sheets like a man who owns everything he touches.
I wait until he starts snoring again, then slide out of bed.
The house is silent, save for the hum of distant lights and the faint clicking of security cameras rotating.
The walk-in closet is at the end of the hallway — one of the few places Julian said was "still being organized." Translation: off-limits.
I creep across the marble floor barefoot, careful not to trigger anything. My heart drums in my ears.
The door creaks as I push it open.
Inside, the air is perfumed and cold. Rows of dresses line the walls, sorted by season, color, length. A pair of red-bottom heels sits on a pedestal, surrounded by rings, watches, necklaces.
But something feels… wrong.
I move deeper into the closet and find a section blocked off by a black curtain. Behind it is a small storage area. I find a locked trunk beneath a fur coat.
And behind it — a box.
I flip open the lid.
Wedding invitations spill out like bones: "You are cordially invited to the union of Julian West & Evelyne Sinclair."
My blood runs cold.
Evelyne?
That's not my name.
My gaze drops to a folder underneath the stack. Inside are photos — of Julian and a woman who looks just like me. Same cheekbones. Same hair. Same laugh.
But it's not me.
In every photo, she's smiling beside him like a trophy.
And then I see it: a death certificate.
Evelyne Sinclair. Deceased.
My hands tremble.
What the hell is going on?