Seraphina entered not as a question but as a bold statement of her ownership. The bright light that briefly blinded Elara was nothing compared to the fierce glare in her sister's eyes. It was a look that didn't ask for an explanation but warned that any explanation given would be closely examined for weaknesses.
Julian, however, was quick to act. The tension that had built between him and Elara a moment ago vanished easily. He stepped away from the desk and slipped his hand into the crook of Seraphina's elbow.
"Darling, I apologize," he said, his voice warm and inviting as he often sounded in public. "Elara was just explaining the logistical nightmare of setting up the Thorne Gallery's spring showing. I was completely engrossed. She has a remarkable knack for organization, even if she hides it behind that artist's detachment."
It was an elaborate lie. He hadn't discussed logistics, but the lie served three purposes: it complemented Elara's hidden talent, it dismissed the closeness of their previous conversation by framing it as boring business, and most importantly, it left Seraphina with nothing to hold onto.
Seraphina's expression softened, instantly calmed by the mention of the gallery—an institution she enjoyed funding but never visiting. "Of course, my practical sister," she purred, sending a fleeting, sugary smile toward Elara. "I told you, Julian, Elara is great at the behind-the-scenes work. But truly, the toasts can't wait. My father is starting to pace."
As Seraphina led Julian away, her diamond catching the light, Elara found herself trembling—not from fear, but from the rush of a close call and the heavy weight of Julian's performance. He had lied for her, safeguarding their shared secret, and in doing so, deepened the bond between them. She knew she should feel disgust over the deceit, but instead, she felt the alluring pull of being seen and protected by the most influential man in the room.
The rest of the night passed in a blur of forced smiles and clinking glasses. By the time Elara returned to the family estate the next morning, exhausted and emotionally spent, her phone buzzed with an encrypted message.
It was from Julian. "Thank you for the moment of clarity last night. I need more of your advice. Seraphina insists I prepare a section for the wedding presentation on the history of the Thorne family. She finds it boring, but I find it fascinating. I need an honest, smart guide. Are you free this afternoon? J."
The message was a lesson in subtle manipulation. It placed Elara in a vital role, highlighted Seraphina's disinterest, and created a valid, family-approved reason for them to be close. It was an invitation to an intellectual exchange.
Elara found herself agreeing almost at once. She told herself it was solely to protect Seraphina—to understand Julian's motives and make sure her sister wasn't walking into a financial disaster. But the truth was, she craved the spark he saw in her, the approval he gave.
That afternoon, Julian arrived at the sprawling, quiet Thorne estate. He avoided the grand drawing rooms and, with Elara's guidance, settled into the dusty, neglected library—a space Seraphina hadn't entered since childhood.
"The first step to ruling the world is knowing its history, wouldn't you agree?" Julian asked, pulling a leather-bound book from a high shelf. He wasn't in the sharp suits from the engagement party but in dark, tailored pants and a simple cashmere sweater, making him seem less like a titan and more like a professor—albeit a strikingly attractive one.
They spent hours sifting through old documents, company records, and family histories. Julian's questions were sharp, digging beneath surface achievements to uncover the flaws and rivalries.
"Your great-grandfather preferred land to cash," Julian noted, tapping a manicured finger on an old deed. "An amateur's mistake. Seraphina would have made the same choice."
Elara felt a twinge of protective loyalty, quickly overtaken by Julian's convincing argument. "Seraphina focuses on the present. She's not sentimental about the past."
"Exactly," Julian said, leaning back in his chair, his eyes shining with shared insight. "She navigates entirely by social currents. You, Elara, dive deep. You understand the foundations. That's why you're the artist, and she is the spectacle."
He continued to build a wall between the sisters, crafting a shared intellectual space that excluded Seraphina. He praised Elara's quiet strength, her sharp wit, and the depth of her feelings, contrasting them with Seraphina's polished superficiality.
"It must be exhausting," he mused later, setting down a heavy book of architectural plans. "To be the anchor for that kind of shallow beauty. To feel everything she pretends to feel."
"I don't pretend anything," Elara replied stiffly, fighting the urge to confess the immense guilt she carried.
"No, you don't," he said, his voice softening, almost tender. "You just carry it alone. But you don't have to, Elara. Not with me."
He was offering a shared secret, a safe space where she could drop the guard she kept for the rest of the world. It was a risky, intoxicating proposal.
The next week, their closeness became a constant. Julian started calling Elara instead of emailing, his excuses growing weaker: confirming a caterer's choice, checking the origin of a minor antique, or needing her opinion on the reception hall color scheme. Each interaction was brief but charged, focusing entirely on their connection, never on Seraphina.
One rainy evening, Elara was in the attic library, a forgotten room above the main house, tasked with gathering old photo albums for Julian's "presentation research." The air was musty, filled with the weight of lost memories. She stacked the velvet-covered books on a cart, feeling the burden of family history pressing down on her.
She pulled down the last, heaviest album. It was bound in plain brown leather and unlabeled, obviously not meant for public viewing. Inside, the photos were sparse and mostly dated from twenty years ago—a time just before her mother became terminally ill.
There was a picture of her mother laughing, her father looking younger and vibrant, a scene of domestic happiness Elara barely remembered. As she was about to close the album, a small, loose photograph slipped from between the pages and fluttered to the floor.
Elara picked it up. It wasn't a family photo.
The man in the picture was unmistakable, despite the grainy quality and youthful intensity in his eyes. It was Julian Vance. But a younger, rawer Julian, perhaps in his early twenties, his jaw less defined by power, his eyes hungry rather than controlled. He wore worn clothes, not tailored, and the backdrop was not a boardroom or ballroom but a sprawling, overgrown garden.
He stood next to a woman. She was strikingly beautiful, full of vibrant energy. She leaned playfully against Julian's shoulder, her long, dark hair covering much of her face. But it was her eyes that captured Elara's attention—they were open, intense, and eerily similar in shape and depth to her own.
Before Elara could fully see the woman's face, the photo was ruined. A jagged, deliberate tear ran diagonally across the image, obscuring the woman's mouth and nose, leaving only her fierce eyes and dark hair visible. It looked as if someone had tried to erase her from Julian's life.
Elara flipped the photo over. There was no date, just a single handwritten word, in a spidery, unfamiliar script: "Forever?"
Julian Vance was not meant to be in their family albums. He was an outsider, a recent addition. Yet here he was, twenty years ago, looking like a man hopelessly in love, standing with a woman who looked eerily like Elara herself.
A chill crept up Elara's spine, disrupting the dust and warmth of the quiet library. This wasn't just a history presentation. This was something personal. Something old.
Just as the true, chilling meaning of the photo began to sink in—the idea that Julian Vance hadn't simply appeared in their lives, but had been circling their family for decades—Elara heard a distant sound. It was the heavy electronic whine of the attic lift starting to ascend. Someone was coming up the elevator, and she knew instinctively that this was a photograph Julian Vance would never want anyone, especially her, to see.
Elara hurried to find a place to hide the evidence. The lift whined closer, the metal cage scraping against the shaft, and she realized the door was about to open. The only hiding spot was the inside pocket of the coat she was wearing. She tucked the photo inside just as the attic lift jolted to a stop. The metal grate slowly slid open, revealing who was inside.