Chapter 9: The Woman in His Photograph

The woman in the photograph had the kind of smile that made you wonder what could possibly make her unhappy.

I found her picture the following morning.

After a restless night in Alexander's mansion, I had woken early and decided to explore the library. I needed something to distract me from the strange locked room upstairs and the date carved into its frame.

Fifteen years ago.

The same year Alexander's father had died.

I couldn't stop thinking about it.

The library was at the far end of the ground floor. It was a beautiful room with dark wooden shelves, comfortable leather chairs, and tall windows overlooking the garden. A soft smell of old books filled the air.

I ran my fingers along the shelves, looking for something interesting.

That was when I noticed the photograph.

It stood on a small table beside a leather armchair, partly hidden behind a stack of books. Unlike the expensive paintings around the mansion, this picture was simple. It had a thin silver frame with a few scratches along the edges.

The woman in it had long, dark brown hair falling over her shoulders. Her eyes were bright, and her smile looked natural, as if someone had captured her in the middle of a happy conversation.

She wore a pale blue dress.

There was something familiar about her.

I stepped closer.

She looked young, perhaps in her late twenties. She was standing beside a man whose face was partly cut off by the edge of the photograph.

I tilted my head.

The man's hand rested on her shoulder.

I couldn't see his face clearly, but I recognized the dark sleeve and expensive watch.

Alexander.

My eyes returned to the woman.

Was she Evelyn?

I had barely finished the thought when someone spoke behind me.

“That's a lovely picture, isn't it?”

I turned.

Mrs. Collins stood near the doorway, carrying a tray with a cup of coffee.

“Yes,” I said. “Who is she?”

The older woman's smile disappeared.

She placed the tray on a nearby table.

“Breakfast will be served in the dining room at eight.”

I looked at the clock.

“It isn't eight yet.”

“No, Miss Carter.”

She seemed uncomfortable.

I glanced at the photograph again.

“Is this Evelyn?”

Mrs. Collins picked up the empty cup from the tray, although it hadn't been used.

“I really wouldn't know.”

“You said you manage the household. Surely you know who lives here.”

“I manage the house, Miss Carter. That doesn't mean I know everything about the people who have lived in it.”

Her answer sounded prepared.

I studied her face.

“Did something happen to her?”

Mrs. Collins looked towards the hallway.

“Please don't ask me that.”

Before I could respond, she picked up the tray and left.

I stood beside the table, staring at the photograph.

Whatever had happened to Evelyn, people in this house were afraid to talk about it.

And that made me even more curious.

I reached towards the frame, then stopped.

Alexander's warning from the previous day came back to me.

Some doors are locked for a reason.

I decided not to touch it.

At least, not yet.

At breakfast, Alexander was already seated at the long dining table.

He wore a dark suit with a white shirt, his sleeves perfectly arranged. A cup of black coffee sat beside his plate, and he was reading something on his tablet.

He looked as though he had been awake for hours.

“Good morning,” I said.

He glanced up.

“Morning.”

I took the seat opposite him.

A housekeeper placed a plate of eggs, toast, and fruit in front of me.

“Thank you,” I said.

She nodded and left.

I picked up my fork.

“Can I ask you something?”

Alexander didn't look away from his tablet.

“You usually do.”

“Who is Evelyn?”

His fingers stopped moving.

Only for a second.

Then he continued reading.

“We've already discussed this.”

“No, you told me not to ask.”

“Which should have answered your question.”

I put down my fork.

“I found her photograph in the library.”

His eyes lifted.

“Where exactly?”

“On the small table beside the leather chair.”

“Did you touch it?”

“No.”

“Good.”

I frowned.

“Why does everyone in this house become uncomfortable when I mention her?”

Alexander placed his tablet on the table.

“Because it's none of their business.”

“And yours?”

His gaze sharpened.

“Careful, Amelia.”

I leaned back.

“You can't expect me to live in a house full of locked doors and unanswered questions without becoming curious.”

“Curiosity can be dangerous.”

“So can keeping secrets.”

He stared at me for a long moment before picking up his coffee.

“Finish your breakfast.”

The conversation was over.

Or so he thought.

Later that afternoon, I returned to the library.

I told myself I only wanted a book, but my eyes went straight to the small table.

The photograph was still there.

I approached it slowly.

This time, I noticed something I hadn't seen earlier. There was a small inscription engraved on the back of the silver frame.

To Alexander. Don't forget how to smile. E.

I read it twice.

To Alexander.

My fingers hovered above the frame.

The woman had known him well enough to tease him about his smile.

I wondered what he had been like before he became the cold, controlled man who seemed to command every room he entered.

Had he laughed more?

Had he trusted people?

Had Evelyn been someone he loved?

I was still looking at the photograph when a voice came from behind me.

“I told you not to touch my personal belongings.”

I turned so quickly that I nearly knocked the frame over.

Alexander stood in the doorway.

He wasn't wearing his suit jacket now. His white shirt was open at the collar, and his sleeves were rolled to his elbows. His expression was darker than I had ever seen it.

“I wasn't touching it,” I said.

“Then why are you standing over it?”

“Because I was looking at it.”

“Why?”

I hesitated.

“Because she's beautiful.”

Something changed in his face.

It was so quick that I might have missed it if I hadn't been watching him carefully.

His eyes moved to the photograph.

For a moment, the confidence disappeared from his expression. His lips parted slightly, and his shoulders seemed to lose their usual strength.

He looked like someone who had just been reminded of something he had spent years trying to forget.

Then he blinked, and the cold mask returned.

“Leave it alone.”

I swallowed.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.”

“Then stop asking questions about things that don't concern you.”

His voice was harsh.

I stepped back.

“I wasn't trying to upset you, Alexander. I just wanted to know who she was.”

“You don't need to know.”

“Was she your girlfriend?”

His jaw tightened.

“That's enough.”

“Was she your wife?”

He moved towards the table.

“Amelia.”

The warning in his voice made me stop.

He picked up the photograph carefully, holding it by the edges. His thumb brushed against the silver frame, almost as if he were afraid of damaging it.

For a second, his eyes softened.

I watched him.

“Did you love her?” I asked quietly.

He didn't answer.

Instead, he turned the photograph over and looked at the inscription.

His fingers tightened around the frame.

“You have no idea what you're asking.”

“Then help me understand.”

He gave a short, bitter laugh.

“Understanding won't change anything.”

I looked at him.

“Did something happen to her?”

His eyes met mine.

There was anger in them, but beneath it was something far more painful.

“She was important to me.”

The answer was so simple that it left me with more questions than before.

“Is she dead?”

He looked away.

I felt my stomach tighten.

“Alexander—”

“Don't.”

His voice cracked slightly on the word.

He turned towards the door, still holding the photograph.

I watched him walk several steps before speaking again.

“I'm sorry.”

He stopped.

For a moment, I thought he might turn around and say something.

Instead, he looked down at the picture.

“People think time makes certain things easier,” he said quietly. “It doesn't. Sometimes it only teaches you how to hide the damage.”

My throat tightened.

He finally turned to face me.

“Stay away from that room upstairs. Stay away from this photograph. And don't ask Mrs. Collins about Evelyn again.”

“Why are you so afraid of talking about her?”

His expression hardened.

“I'm not afraid.”

“Then what are you?”

He stared at me.

“Someone who knows what happens when the wrong person starts asking questions.”

He walked out of the library.

I remained where I was, listening to his footsteps fade down the corridor.

The photograph was gone.

But I couldn't forget the expression on his face when he looked at it.

It wasn't the expression of a man who simply missed someone.

It was the expression of someone carrying guilt.

A few minutes later, I left the library and returned upstairs. As I passed the locked room, I noticed the door was slightly open.

I stopped.

A thin line of darkness showed between the door and its frame.

I looked down the hallway.

No one was there.

Then I heard Alexander's voice from somewhere inside the room.

Low. Broken.

“I'm sorry, Evelyn.”

I stepped closer without thinking.

Another voice answered.

Not Alexander's.

It was a woman's voice, coming from a small speaker or recording device.

“Alexander, if you're hearing this, it means you still haven't told them the truth.”

My blood ran cold.

Then the recording continued.

“And if anything happens to me, don't trust your brother.”

The door suddenly opened wider.

Alexander stood in the doorway.

His face had gone completely pale.

And I realized the photograph wasn't simply a memory he wanted to protect.

It was a wound he had never allowed to heal.