Chapter 3 - The shadow of the estate
The sprawling Hale estate in the Hamptons was designed as an impenetrable fortress of modern luxury, but tonight, it felt like a sprawling, haunted mausoleum. Ethan’s private security contractors, heavily armed and operating with absolute discretion, had secured the perimeter within an hour of the cathedral incident. The official police investigation had been stonewalled by Ethan's high-priced legal team, who provided a sanitized narrative of a deranged, obsessed stalker crashing the wedding. The silicone mask had been confiscated by the chief of Ethan's security, a ruthless former intelligence operative named Marcus, to be analyzed in their private, off-the-books laboratory.
Emily sat huddled in the corner of the massive, cream-colored velvet sofa in the main living room. She had finally washed the scent of crushed roses and fear from her skin, changing into a soft, oversized gray cashmere sweater and silk trousers. She held a cup of chamomile tea, her hands trembling so violently the porcelain rattled against the saucer. She stared blankly at the roaring fire in the enormous stone hearth, feeling completely disconnected from reality.
Ethan stood by the towering floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out into the pitch-black night. He held a glass of scotch, the amber liquid untouched. He had spent the last three hours interrogating his security staff, trying to comprehend how a heavily scarred woman had bypassed the biometric checkpoints at the cathedral.
She knew the security blind spots, Ethan murmured, his voice a low, vibrating rumble in the quiet room. She didn't just walk into the bridal suite. She used the subterranean maintenance tunnels. Tunnels that only the architectural firm and my personal security detail know about.
Emily looked up, her watery blue eyes filled with an exhausting paranoia. Are you saying someone on your payroll helped her?
I am saying she had intimate knowledge of my world, Ethan replied, turning to face her. His piercing blue eyes were dark with an emotion Emily had never seen before—a profound, lingering guilt.
What did Lily mean, Ethan? Emily asked, her voice dropping to a fragile whisper. Who is the first Emily?
Ethan walked over to the sofa, sitting on the heavy oak coffee table opposite her. He looked down at his hands, his broad shoulders slumping under the weight of a secret he had kept hidden for years.
Seven years ago, before I built Hale Industries into a global conglomerate, I was engaged, Ethan began, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. Her name was Emily Vance. She was brilliant, beautiful... and she struggled with severe, manic depression.
Emily set her teacup down, her heart hammering against her ribs. You never told me you were engaged before.
It wasn't something the public relations team wanted in my biography, Ethan said bitterly. We were on my yacht, off the coast of Martha's Vineyard. We had a terrible argument. I told her the relationship was toxic, that I was calling off the wedding. I went to the lower deck to sleep in the guest cabin. When I woke up the next morning, she was gone. The authorities found blood on the starboard railing. They ruled it a suicide by drowning. They never found the body.
Emily stared at him, the horrifying pieces of the puzzle snapping violently into place. The woman at the cathedral... the scars. Do you think she survived? Do you think the first Emily didn't drown, but was pulled into the boat's propellers? That would explain the facial trauma.
Ethan shook his head, his sculpted jaw tight. It's impossible. If she survived, why wait seven years to show herself? Why orchestrate this elaborate, psychotic theater of wearing a silicone mask of your face? And more importantly, how did she know Lily?
The heavy, oak doors of the living room swung open. Marcus, the chief of security, stepped into the room. His face was a mask of grim, professional concern.
Sir, Marcus said, his voice tense. We finished analyzing the security footage from the estate for the last thirty days, checking for any anomalies or unauthorized breaches prior to the wedding.
Did you find anything? Ethan demanded, standing up.
Marcus hesitated, glancing at Emily before looking back at Ethan. The perimeter was never breached, Sir. No one forced their way onto the property. But we found footage from the internal cameras in the east wing. The wing that has been closed off for renovations.
Show me, Ethan commanded.
Marcus handed Ethan a heavy, encrypted tablet. Ethan pressed play. The black-and-white infrared footage showed the dark, dust-sheet-covered hallway of the east wing at three in the morning, two weeks ago. A figure emerged from the shadows. It was a woman, walking with a slight, painful limp. She wasn't breaking into the house. She was walking comfortably down the corridor, wearing one of Ethan's old dress shirts.
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And then, the camera angle shifted as the woman opened the door to the nursery. Lily, who had been sleepwalking, wandered out of her room. The scarred woman knelt down, embracing the six-year-old child. Lily did not scream. She hugged the woman back, burying her face in the stranger's neck, treating the intruder with the absolute, unquestioning love of a daughter.
Ethan dropped the tablet, the glass screen shattering against the oak table. The phantom hadn't just crashed the wedding. She had been living inside their home for weeks, and Lily had kept her secret.
