15. Sbadows of the past

Lena's POV

My heart jumped.

I wasn’t expecting anyone. Not anyone at all, actually. The town was small, quiet, the kind of place where people didn’t just show up unannounced unless something was wrong. Or unless they knew you.

And nobody here knew me yet.

The knock wasn’t loud. Just firm. Two taps. Then nothing.

I stood there in my tiny kitchen, barefoot, holding a mug I’d forgotten to drink from. The smell of burnt toast still hung in the air. I hadn’t slept much. My head felt full and hollow at the same time.

Another knock.

I opened the door halfway.

There was no one.

Just a box.

Medium sized. Brown cardboard. Sitting right outside my apartment door like it belonged there. Like it had always been meant to find me.

My name was written across the top.

Lena Carter.

The way my stomach dropped felt familiar. Too familiar. Like the feeling I used to get in the mansion when Ethan came home late and didn’t explain why. Like the silence before a fight that never really ended.

I looked down the hallway. Empty. Quiet. Just the sound of the ocean somewhere far off, crashing like it didn’t care about me at all.

I dragged the box inside and locked the door behind me.

That should have been dramatic. Or brave. But mostly it just felt tired.

The box sat on the table for a long time before I touched it again. I paced. I washed my mug. I wiped a counter that was already clean. I told myself it was nothing.

But my hands were shaking anyway.

When I finally opened it, I wished I hadn’t.

The first thing I saw was the wedding album.

Our wedding album.

The one that used to sit on the glass table in the west wing of the mansion. The one guests always commented on. Heavy. Expensive. White leather with our initials pressed into the corner.

E & L.

My throat closed.

I lifted it out slowly, like it might explode or scream or accuse me of something. It smelled the same. Old paper. Dust. A hint of perfume I used to wear back when I thought I was happy.

I opened it.

And my breath stopped.

My face was gone.

Not blurred. Not edited. Not torn randomly.

Cut out.

Every single photo. Every page. My face was missing, carved out with something sharp and personal. Scissors maybe. Or a blade. The edges were uneven. Some careful. Some angry. Some rushed.

Just empty holes where I should have been.

Ethan was still there. Standing alone at the altar. Holding nothing. Smiling at air. Dancing with a ghost. Kissing a blank space.

It felt wrong in a way I can’t explain. Like watching my own life get erased while someone else stayed whole.

I sat down hard.

My hands trembled as I flipped through more pages, even though I already knew what I’d find. Every memory ruined. Every moment violated. Someone had spent time on this. Someone had cared enough to hurt me properly.

I remembered that day.

The mansion filled with people. The way my dress felt heavy and light at the same time. Ethan’s hands on my waist when he pulled me close and whispered that we’d made it.

Had we?

Loose photos slid out of the album and landed on the table.

I stared at them.

Ethan. In a bar. Dim lighting. His profile sharp. A woman close to him. Too close. His hand low on her back. Another photo. Different woman. His mouth near her ear. Her smiling.

My chest started to ache.

“This isn’t real,” I whispered.

But the photos didn’t argue.

I wanted to scream. To call him. To demand answers I knew I wouldn’t get. Because even if he denied it, the damage was already done. Someone had planted doubt inside me and watered it carefully.

I shoved everything back into the box and taped it shut with more force than necessary. My fingers hurt. I didn’t care.

I pushed it into the closet, behind my suitcase, behind the few things I’d brought with me when I ran.

I slid down the wall and sat on the floor.

It had only been a week.

One week since I left the mansion. Since I walked away from marble floors and echoing rooms and a marriage that ended without a real conversation.

One week and the past had already found me.

I didn’t know who sent the box.

I didn’t know how they knew where I was.

I didn’t know how deep this went.

But I knew it wasn’t an accident.

Someone wanted me to hurt.

I wiped my face with the sleeve of my sweater and stood up slowly. My legs felt weak, but they held. The apartment was small. Quiet. Nothing like the mansion. And yet it felt more like mine than that place ever did.

I opened the window and let the cold sea air rush in.

It stung. It helped.

“I’m not going back,” I said out loud.

My voice shook, but the words stayed.

They could send boxes.

They could ruin memories.

They could lie and twist and cut me out of my own life.

But I was still here.

And for the first time in a long time, that had to be enough.