Chapter 3

Claire' s POV:

The next morning, I found Gabriel in the kitchen, humming along to one of Aria' s songs-one of my songs-playing softly from the built-in speakers. He was plating breakfast with the focused precision of a surgeon.

"I was just about to bring this up to you," he said, flashing a smile that didn' t reach his eyes.

"Actually," I said, my voice steady, "I changed my mind. I think I' d like to go to Aria' s party tonight."

His smile faltered for a fraction of a second. A flicker of something-annoyance? panic?-crossed his face before he smoothed it over with his usual mask of concern.

"Are you sure, love? You seemed so exhausted yesterday."

"I' m feeling better," I lied. "I want to be there for my sister. It' s a big night for her."

He hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Of course. We' ll just pop in for a little while, then. We don' t want you overdoing it."

I knew exactly why he didn't want me there. He was afraid I' d somehow overshadow his precious Aria. He didn' t want the real artist standing next to the fake one. He didn' t want anyone looking too closely.

But I had to go. I had to see them one last time. This wasn't just a farewell to my husband; it was a farewell to my entire family, to the life I was about to leave behind forever. Tomorrow, the final preparations for my new identity, my new life, would begin. Tonight was for closure.

The Avila family estate was buzzing, a hive of champagne flutes and forced laughter. Guests swarmed around Aria, who stood like a queen in the center of the grand hall, one hand resting proprietorially on her small, neat baby bump. She was glowing, soaking in the praise for her achievement. For my achievement.

"A true genius!" one critic gushed.

"That painting is a masterpiece. It' s a shoo-in for the grand prize," another declared.

Aria lapped it up, her smile wide and radiant. When she saw me walk in on Gabriel' s arm, her smile tightened for a split second. A shadow passed over her eyes before she masked it with a practiced, sisterly warmth.

"Claire! I' m so glad you could make it," she cooed, her voice dripping with false sincerity. "I was worried you were still holed up in that studio of yours, doing... well, whatever it is you do these days."

The jab was subtle, meant to paint me as a recluse, a hobbyist, while she was the celebrated artist. I ignored her, my eyes drawn past her to the painting displayed on a velvet-draped easel.

A wave of nausea washed over me. It was like looking at a ghost.

My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vise. The painting was of a lone lighthouse against a stormy sea, the waves crashing in a violent, chaotic spray. The sky was a swirl of bruised purples and angry grays. It was a piece I had painted years ago, a raw, emotional outpouring after our mother' s death.

It was one of my most private, personal works. I had never shown it to anyone. It was locked away in a storage unit, along with other pieces from a life I thought I' d left behind.

How did it get here?

How was it hanging in this hall, with Aria' s name on a small brass plaque beneath it? How was it her entry into a national competition?

Aria followed my gaze, a smug, triumphant smile playing on her lips. She glided over to me, her voice a low, mocking whisper meant only for me to hear. "Do you like it? I call it 'Tempest' ."