Chapter 3 - THE HOUSE OF GHOSTS
The Sterling Estate sat high on the cliffs of Mercer Island, a towering fortress of black glass, slate, and iron surrounded by ten acres of dense pine forest. It was built to withstand a siege, but inside, it felt like a mausoleum dedicated to a dead woman.
When the heavy iron gates slid shut behind the armored SUV, Clara knew there was no escape.
Adrienne carried her through the grand double doors into a high-ceilinged foyer. The walls were lined with massive oil paintings and photographs—all of her. Clara smiling on a yacht; Clara wearing a diamond necklace at a charity gala; Clara holding a positive pregnancy test with her arms wrapped around a laughing, younger-looking Adrienne.
Clara stared at the pictures in absolute horror and fascination. "That's... that's me."
"That is my wife," Adrienne said, setting her down gently on a velvet sofa in the grand living room. "Clara Sterling. Co-owner of the Sterling Logistics Group. Mother to Leo, Julian, and Sam."
The three little boys trotted into the room, refusing to leave Clara’s side. They climbed onto the sofa, crawling into her lap and curling against her sides like three tired puppies. They hadn't looked at their high-priced nannies or their father with this level of affection in three long years.
A tall, elderly butler in a sharp suit walked into the room carrying a silver tray with warm tea. When his eyes landed on Clara, the silver tray rattled violently in his hands.
"Mrs... Mrs. Sterling?" the old man gasped, tears immediately welling in his aged eyes. "Dear God in heaven... it's a miracle."
"Arthur," Adrienne said quietly. "Call Dr. Vance. I want a full medical evaluation, a neurological scan, and a blood panel done here within the hour. Tell him if he breathes a word of this to anyone, I'll destroy his practice."
"Right away, sir," Arthur choked out, wiping his eyes as he hurried away.
Clara sat frozen, holding the three sleeping boys against her chest. The warmth of their little bodies, the gentle scent of lavender and vanilla clinging to them, felt so terrifyingly familiar it made her chest ache.
Adrienne pulled an armchair close to the sofa and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees, staring at her with an intensity that felt physical.
"Tell me everything," Adrienne commanded softly. "From the moment you woke up."
"I... I don't remember anything before the hospital," Clara whispered, her fingers tracing the soft dark hair of the boy resting on her shoulder. "The doctors said I had severe retrograde amnesia caused by blunt force trauma. Someone paid my emergency room bill in cash and vanished. I had a piece of paper in my pocket that said 'Clara Mitchell.' So that's who I became."
"Who gave you the lavender soap?" Adrienne asked suddenly, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure steel.
Clara blinked. "What?"
"The soap. You smell like cheap lavender," Adrienne said, his voice dropping an octave. "You never used lavender. You hated it. You were allergic to synthetic lavender oils."
Clara stared at him, her heart skipping a beat. "I... I buy it at the corner bodega near my apartment. The owner, Mr. Gable, always gives it to me for free."
Adrienne’s hand tightened on the armrest of his chair until the leather groaned under the pressure. "Vance," he called out without looking away from her.
May you like
Vance appeared in the doorway instantly. "Boss?"
"Find this 'Mr. Gable.' Bring him to the boathouse," Adrienne said, his tone dropping into a icy, lethal register. "And find out who has been paying her rent for the last two years."
