The fourth morning at Blackwater, Emma woke before dawn.
She had stopped dreaming of drowning. Instead, she dreamed of Nicholas, of his hands on her face, of his voice saying her name, of the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't watching.
She dressed quickly and walked the empty corridors, her bare feet silent on the cold marble. The house was still asleep… the servants, the guards, the man who owned it all.
She found herself in front of a door she hadn't noticed before.
It was at the end of a narrow hallway, half-hidden by a tapestry. The wood was dark, old, scarred by what looked like claw marks. No handle. No keyhole. Just a small symbol carved into the frame, a crescent moon wrapped in thorns.
Emma reached out to touch it.
"Don't."
She spun around.
Nicholas stood behind her, dressed in a black robe, his hair disheveled, his eyes sharp. He looked like he had been running or like he hadn't slept at all.
"I'm sorry," Emma said. "I was exploring. I didn't mean to…"
"It's fine." He stepped past her and pressed his palm against the door. It clicked open. "This is my private study. No one comes in here."
"Then why are you showing me?"
He looked at her over his shoulder. "Because you're no one."
He pushed the door open and walked inside.
Emma followed.
The study was smaller than she expected… cozy, almost. A fire burned in a stone hearth. Bookshelves lined the walls, stuffed with leather-bound volumes and rolled-up maps. A desk sat in the corner, covered in papers and photographs.
And on the walls, everywhere, were portraits.
Not of Nicholas. Not of his family.
Of her.
Emma stopped breathing.
She recognized the woman in the paintings immediately. Dark hair. Dark eyes. A smile that was both warm and sad. Celeste Laurent, the actress, had been in another life.
But these weren't photographs. These were oil paintings, done by someone who had known her face intimately. The curve of her jaw. The way she held her head. The small scar above her left eyebrow from a childhood fall.
"How do you have these?" Emma whispered.
Nicholas walked to the fireplace, his back to her. "I commissioned them."
"You commissioned paintings of a dead woman?"
"A woman I loved." His voice was low, rough. "A woman I failed to save."
Emma's heart hammered. She had known, of course, that he had been on the boat. That he had tried to save her. But she hadn't known… couldn't have known… that he had loved Celeste.
"You never told me," she said.
"You never asked."
She walked closer to the paintings, her eyes tracing the brushstrokes. The artist had captured Celeste perfectly… the intelligence in her eyes, the sadness she had always tried to hide, the way she laughed with her whole body.
"Who painted these?" Emma asked.
"I did."
She turned to stare at him.
Nicholas's face was unreadable, but his hands… those strong, capable hands… were shaking.
"I started painting after she died," he said. "It was the only way I could keep her with me. The only way I could remember her face."
"Nicholas… "
"I know it's strange. I know it's obsessive." He finally turned to face her. "But I needed you to understand. You're not just some woman I bought to settle a debt. You're not just a convenient wife."
"Then what am I?"
He walked to her. Stopped inches away. Reached out and touched her face… her cheek, her jaw, her lips.
"You're the first woman who's made me feel like I'm not crazy for holding on," he said. "You have her eyes. Her voice. The way she tilts her head when she's thinking." His thumb traced her lower lip. "Sometimes I look at you and I swear she's come back to me."
Emma's throat tightened. She wanted to tell him the truth. Wanted to say, I am her. I came back. I'm right here.
But the words wouldn't come.
Because she didn't know him yet. Not really. And if she told him…If she revealed the deepest, strangest truth of her existence, he might lock her away. Or have her committed. Or look at her with the same cold disgust that Juliette had worn like armor.
So she said nothing.
"Maybe she did," Emma whispered instead. "Maybe she came back in someone else."
Nicholas stared at her for a long, aching moment. Then he pulled his hand away and stepped back.
"Don't," he said. "Don't give me hope I can't afford to have."
He walked out of the study, leaving her alone with the paintings and the fire and the weight of a secret she couldn't share.
Not yet.