Romans de Real Dennis

She had stopped counting the days since Damon left for Madrid. Days bled into each other inside the glass mansion as she performed the same rituals like some robot to the dismay of the staff. Curse, grumble, sketch, look out the window, pace around the room, go to the greenhouse and back again. Clara had left countless mails for him but he simply couldn't be bothered to treat it as priority. After all what more was she other than a stand in bride. To keep her from losing her mind, she claimed one of the unused guest rooms on the east wing and turned it to what she called her studio.She’d found an old easel in the storage room and dragged it up herself, ignoring the thin layer of dust that clung to her clothes. Now, as she stood before the easel, a streak of ochre on her wrist, she could almost forget where she was.The curtains were drawn back, letting in ribbons of sunlight, the floor was speckled with bits of dried paint, and on the windowsill sat her water jar, brushes and the

Damon padded down the marble steps barefoot, still tugging at the belt of his robe,eyes half-shut from from mist if the sleep he had been deprived off since the incident.The faint clink of a spoon against porcelain drew his attention, and when he looked up, he almost flinched.“Dad?”The older man sat at the far end of the dining table,cup in one hand raised to his lips,newspaper in the other. Streaks of his grey hair caught the light like frost. He was dressed already in a crisp white shirt, casual beige trousers and glasses perched halfway down his nose.“Ah,finally you’re up,” his father said, without looking up.“I’ve been waiting for you.” he replied simply,folding the newspaper with precision.Damon frowned, rubbing his eyes. “For me? Why?”“Why not?” He sipped his coffee. “It’s Saturday.”“And?”His father’s eyes glinted. “We golf on Saturdays.”Damon blinked, sure he’d misheard. “We what?”“We golf,” his father repeated,as though explaining to a child.“The last time we golfed

Lena sat cross-legged on the bed, her phone pressed to her ear. On the other end, her brother’s voice drifted through, drowsy and a little rough around the edges.“Eli,” she said softly,forcing cheer into her voice. “How are you feeling today?”There was a rustle on the other end,a half-suppressed cough, and the murmur of television in the background.“I’m fine,” he said, his tone clipped, teenage irritation threaded with fatigue. “You don’t have to call every hour, you know. I’m not dying.”“Don’t say that,” she murmured.“I’m just saying,” he replied. “You worry too much.”Lena smiled faintly, even if her chest tightened. “Well, it’s kind of my thing.”He chuckled, but it was short-lived. “You don’t have to come tonight, by the way.”Her brows knit together. “Why not?”“It’s... not a good idea. People know who you are now. You can’t just sneak into a hospital. Someone might see you.”“I’ll go through the back,” she insisted. “If I wear a scarf and some shades. No one will—”“It’s no

The staff froze when they saw her storming through the hall barefoot.“Miss Wren—” one of the housemaids started, clutching her apron.“I need to see Mr. Hale.”“But ma’am, he doesn’t receive anyone this early—”They exchanged uneasy looks. Someone muttered, “No one enters his room without permission.”But Lena didn’t stop. She reached the tall mahogany door and pushed her way in,ignoring the startled protests behind her.The hinges gave a deep groan, as the sound sliced through the still morning.“Let her be,” he said to the stunned staff without raising his voice.They hesitated, then bowed their heads and slipped away, closing the door softly behind them.Lena stood in the middle of the room, her chest rising and falling as the phone trembled in her hand.“Someone is threatening me,” she said, stepping closer.She shoved the phone almost into his face. “Look at it! I got this message last night from an anonymous number. They said ‘You’re not Amara. Leave before he buries you too.’”H

The television droned softly across the room.“Three days after her first public appearance since the accident, Amara Wren was seen beside her boyfriend at the signing ceremony that secured Hale Industries’ continued funding. Sources close to the family say she’s recovering remarkably well—”Lena muted the screen.Her reflection shimmered faintly in the black glass. Her dark hair had now been trimmed to model Amara’s precise shoulder-length cut. It was almost uncanny that she bore almost the same facial features as Amara and if she could turn back time to a month ago she wouldn't believe it. The first time she had met Amara, they spent close to five minutes staring at each other without saying a word.“Word got out to me that I had a look alike and I almost couldn't believe it myself”“Was that why you requested my services?”“It was why I could trust you with this particular portrait.” Amara said reclusively. “Your’e a talented artist Lena. Is it okay if I called you Lena or Miss Row

Morning spilled into the room in bands of white light. It crawled up the floorboards and caught on the glass vials and silver trays scattered across the vanity table. Lena sat in the same chair as the day before, hair pinned, collarbones dusted with translucent powder. The stylists were already at work — one adjusting the nape of her cream suit, another pressing concealer into the hollow beneath her eyes. She barely got enough sleep last night despite the enormous queen size bed and she couldn't tell whether it was due to guilt or the fact that she had left home on bad terms with her brother.“Hold still,” murmured the makeup artist. “We’re almost done with the eyes.”She nodded faintly. Her phone sat on the edge of the table idle as she waited for a call back from Eli.When the woman turned to fetch a brush, she reached for it.The stylists’ chatter soon dissolved into a low hum as she barely heard them the moment she pressed call.No answer.She tried again.“Eli, it’s me,” she whispe