Morning At The Bellingham Mansion

~CAMILLA

I woke up alone in a bed that was bigger than my entire apartment back home, still wearing yesterday's wedding dress like some kind of deranged Cinderella.

Sunlight poured through windows I forgot to close last night, and for a brief, beautiful moment, I thought maybe everything was a nightmare. Maybe I was still in my apartment in Brooklyn, and Pamela was safe, and I didn't just marry a stranger while pretending to be my twin sister.

Then I saw the ring on my finger. Heavy, expensive, absolutely real.

My phone was still buried in the drawer where I left it. I considered leaving it there, considering pretending the threatening messages didn't exist, but that wasn't going to make them disappear.

Two new messages from the unknown number:

                   Did Arthur enjoy his wedding night?

       You looked beautiful in white. Lies suit you.

My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone.

Someone was watching me. Someone  who knew exactly what was going on and they were enjoying every bit of it.  Playing with me like a cat plays with a mouse before it kills it.

I deleted the messages and shoved the phone back into the drawer, frustrated.

The bedroom door had a note slipped underneath it. 

Arthur's handwriting was neat, precise: ‘Margaret will help you with anything you need. I'll be in meetings all morning. We have dinner reservations at eight. -A’

Dinner reservations. 

Like we're a normal couple doing normal things.

I found the bathroom through a door on the far side of the room, and it was exactly as overwhelming as I expected. Marble everywhere, a bathtub that looked like it belonged in a spa, a shower with so many knobs and settings I couldn't figure out how to turn it on.

But I managed. Twenty minutes later, I was clean and wrapped in a towel, staring at a closet full of clothes that made my skin crawl.

Everything was wrong. The colors, the styles, the expensive labels that Pamela would have loved and I couldn't stand. I found a black dress shoved in the back, the only dark thing in the entire collection, and put it on.

A knock at the door made me jump.

"Mrs. Bellingham?" A woman's voice, kind and patient. "It's Margaret. May I come in?"

I opened the door to find a woman in her fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and warm brown eyes. She was wearing simple clothes and a gentle smile that touched my heart.

"Good morning," she said, and though she noticed that I was wearing evening clothes at nine in the morning, she didn't mention it. "I'm Margaret, the house manager. Mr. Bellingham asked me to make sure you have everything you need."

"Thank you." My voice sounded strange. "I'm still... getting adjusted."

"Of course." Margaret stepped into the room, and I noticed she was carrying a small tray with coffee and pastries. "I prepared your usual breakfast. Earl Grey tea with honey, croissants from that bakery in Tribeca you love, fresh berries."

Pamela's breakfast. Not mine.

"Actually," I said carefully, "could I have coffee instead? Just black coffee?"

Margaret's eyebrows rose slightly. "Coffee? But you always say it's too bitter, that you prefer—”

"I know." I cut her off too quickly. "I'm trying something new." I flashed her an awkward smile.

"Of course." She set the tray down on a side table. "I'll bring coffee right away. Is there anything else?"

"No, thank you."

But Margaret didn't leave immediately. She was looking around the room, her brows knitted in a small frown. It was obvious something was bothering her.

"Is everything alright?" I asked.

"Yes, of course." But her frown deepened. "It's just... you didn't touch your favorite flowers. Usually when Mr. Bellingham brings you peonies, you put them right by your bedside. These have been here since yesterday, and you haven't even moved the vase."

I look at the flowers, huge, lush peonies in shades of pink and cream. Pamela's favorite. I hated them.

"I was too tired last night," I lied.

I didn't even notice them to begin with.

"Hmm." Margaret’s eyes narrowed with keen interest and suspicion. "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were a different person entirely this morning. You seem... quieter. More reserved."

My heart stopped. "Just adjusting to married life."

"Yes, I'm sure." She replied flatly. "I'll get that coffee."

She left, and I dropped into the edge of the bed, my head in my hands.

I can't do this. I can't pretend to be Pamela for people who actually knew her, people who noticed when I ordered the wrong breakfast or ignored her favorite flowers. Every interaction was a minefield, and I had no map.

The coffee arrived. I drink it too fast, burning my tongue, desperate for the caffeine to make my brain work properly.

My phone buzzed from the drawer. I considered ignoring it, but what if it was Mom? What if something happened to Dad?

It wasn't Mom.

Unknown number: "How does it feel, living in your sister's shadow? Does Arthur kiss you the way he used to kiss her?"

I threw the phone across the room, my heart hammering against my chest. It clattered on impact.

Someone knocked again—more confidently this time.

"Pamela?" Arthur's voice rang. "May I come in?"

I panicked. 

I wasn't  dressed properly. I was wearing evening clothes at ten in the morning and I just threw my phone at the wall like a crazy person. But I couldn’t say no.

"Yes."

Arthur stepped into the room, and I noticed he was dressed for business—perfect suit, perfect tie, everything about him controlled and precise. His eyes swept across the room, landing on the phone on the floor, the coffee I drank instead of tea, the peonies I haven't touched.

"Everything alright?" he asked, voice laced with concern.

"Fine." I forced a smile. "Just clumsy this morning."

"Hmm." He picked up my phone, examined it for cracks, then set it on the bedside table. "Margaret mentioned you're acting differently. Not eating your usual breakfast. Changing your routine."

"I didn't realize I had to run my breakfast choices by the staff."

It came out sharper than I intended, and Arthur's eyebrows rose slightly.

"You're right," he retorted after a moment. "I apologize. That was overstepping." But he still watched me, eyes narrowed and calculating. "I wanted to let you know that we have a charity gala tomorrow night. Several of my business associates will be there, many of whom you've met before."

People who knew Pamela. People who will notice if I didn't remember them.

"Of course," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. 

"Good." Arthur moved toward the door, then paused. "Also, I've arranged for you to meet with my mother's jewelry designer next week. To select pieces for upcoming events. I know how much you enjoy that sort of thing."

Pamela did, not me.

"Thank you," I managed, keeping my tone steady.

Arthur studied me for another long moment, then nodded. "I'll see you at dinner. Eight o'clock. Don't be late."

With that he walked out.

I spent the rest of the day exploring the mansion, trying to memorize the layout in case I needed to know where things were. It was enormous with multiple floors, dozens of rooms, hallways that seemed to go on forever.  I gasped in awe as I made a turn towards the library which stole my breath. The floor-to-ceiling shelf lined with books in a room with leather chairs and a fireplace that actually worked. Moving on, there was a gym, a pool and a movie room.

And in every room, there were traces of Pamela. Photographs of her with Arthur at various events smiling brightly, him looking reserved but content. Books she must have read, judging by the bookmarks. A half-finished painting in what must be her studio, though it's nothing like the dark, moody work I create.

I found myself in the studio late in the afternoon, staring at Pamela's painting. It was bright and cheerful, all sunshine and flowers and optimism. Everything I've never been.

"That's not finished."

I spun around to find Arthur standing in the doorway. I didn't hear him approach.

"Sorry," I replied quickly. "I was just exploring."

"You never come in here." He stepped into the room, his eyes on the painting. "You always said this room made you uncomfortable. That you didn't like people seeing your unfinished work."

Another test. Another thing I didn't know about Pamela.

"I changed my mind," I say, hoping that's enough.

Arthur comes closer, and I force myself not to back away. He studies the painting with an expression I can't read, then looks at me.

"You've been different since the wedding," he noted quietly. "Softer. Less guarded. I'm trying to decide if it's an act or if something changed."

My throat suddenly felt tight and I could barely speak. "People change."

"Do they?" He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my face. The gesture was so intimate and so unexpected, that I froze on the spot. "Or do they just stop pretending to be something they're not?"

"I don't know what you mean." I felt my cheeks grow hot.

"Don't you?" His hand dropped. "For six months, you kept me at arm's length. You agreed to marry me, but you made it clear it was a business arrangement, nothing more. You refused to let me close. And then suddenly, on our wedding day, you looked at me like..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Never mind. I'm probably imagining things."

"Arthur" I called out to him. But he ignored me. 

"We should get ready for dinner." He cut in with a dismissive tone and started moving towards the door. "I made reservations at that restaurant you love. The one in SoHo with the view of the bridge."

Pamela's favorite restaurant. Which I had never been to and wouldn't know how to find.

"Great," I replied weakly.

"Oh, and Pamela?" He paused in the doorway. "Wear something bright. I know you've been gravitating toward black lately, but I prefer when you wear colors. It suits you better."

Then he left me standing in my sister's studio, surrounded by her unfinished work, knowing that I was running out of time before someone figured out that I'm a fraud.