Chapter 8

Adrian brought Serena back to the estate that evening.

The estate that had been his and Eliana's home for seven years.

She had designed everything. The layout, the colour of every room, the selection of every piece of furniture — all of it had been made to reflect her taste.

When he opened the wardrobe in the main hall, there wasn't a single pair of her shoes.

Her bedroom drawers were empty. Her dressing table held only his things. The clothes she'd hung on the back of the bathroom door were gone. Even the small pots of herbs she'd grown on the terrace had been taken.

The house was suddenly half empty. There was a hollow in the centre of it that shouldn't have been there.

Adrian stood in the bedroom for a moment, feeling something press down on his chest. Like something had been excavated from below his sternum.

He shook his head and pushed it away. Seven years in the same house — he simply wasn't used to the quiet. That was all.

He took out the divorce certificate, looked at the deep red of the cover, and gave a short, dry laugh.

Don't think about her. She's not worth it.

Serena came in from the bedroom in a mood, her voice rising.

"Adrian, I'm annoyed with you! Your ex-wife is incredibly petty — she left things in the bedroom on purpose. I know what she's thinking. She wants an excuse to come back and collect them. She's just waiting for a chance to make trouble."

Adrian's chest released slightly at the idea. He didn't examine why.

"Show me. Whatever it is, throw it out."

On the small terrace off the main bedroom was a large ceramic bowl.

Whatever had been inside it had burned almost completely. There was nothing left but black residue and ash, barely identifiable.

This is how she's being petty? Leaving a bowl of ash behind? His face tightened.

Serena's voice pitched up another register. "She's probably put some sort of curse on us. Adrian, please hold me when we sleep tonight — it's got me frightened."

"Stop worrying." He lifted the bowl. "I'll get rid of it."

He carried it downstairs.

But as he was about to tip the contents into the rubbish, something caught his eye. A corner of paper — barely scorched, the only thing to have survived the flame.

He picked it up.

A notebook. Eliana's handwriting.

A recipe. One of dozens on the page. At the end of each one, in careful brackets, were three words: Adrian's favourite.

He stopped.

He set the bowl down and sorted through the remaining fragments with his hands — slowly, carefully, pulling out anything that hadn't burned all the way through.

Some photographs. The faces were entirely gone — eaten by fire — but the clothes were still faintly visible. He knew those clothes. They were his.

She'd been photographing him.

For years, apparently. Without his knowing.

He turned one over. On the back, in her handwriting:

Look at this disaster — cream all over his face. Absolute idiot. I love him.

Another:

Asleep again. Honestly. The most aggravating, adorable man.

Another:

Even when he's scowling he's unbearable to look at.

Something stirred in Adrian's chest — soft, irrational, unwanted.

He sat down on the kitchen step.

"It's not real." He said it aloud, to no one. His hands were trembling. "It's a performance. She knew exactly what she was doing when she left these. She knew I'd find them. This is exactly the kind of thing she'd engineer."

He turned the fragment over again. He looked at the handwriting for a long time.

"She doesn't love me. She never did. The only person who actually loves me is Serena. I'm getting married tomorrow. I'm not going to let her do this."

He found a clean bag and put the fragments inside — the notebook, the photographs, every piece he could salvage.

He placed it in the drawer of his study alongside the divorce certificate.

"I'm keeping these. To remind myself. So I don't fall for it again."

He closed the drawer.

He stood there in the dark for a long time.