Her Face, My Wife's Shadow

​Alexander’s POV

​For five years, I have been living in darkness. The grief in my heart was heavy. It’s a silent weight that never goes away. 

To the rest of the world, I am Alexander Sterling, a powerful billionaire with golden-brown eyes and a heart made of stone. They all think I am made of money and power.

​But every time I look out my window, I only see her face. 

Isabella.

The only woman I have loved with my whole heart.

​Today is the fifth anniversary of her death. Five years ago, her car went off a cliff and fell into the ocean. For one month, they didn't see her body, until her body was found but I couldn't recognise her. Her body and her face was rotten, the DNA prove that she was the one. I had no choice than to bury her. Since that day, my life has been a dark, lonely place.

​"Sir." 

My assistant, James Dawson, spoke softly from the door. "The architects from New York are here. The cars are ready to meet them at the airport."

​I nodded my head still looking at the window.

​I didn't want to meet any architects, or talk about new buildings or project work. I just wanted to sit in the dark and remember the smell of Isabella’s perfume and the soft way she used to say my name.

​When we got to the airport, the sun was hot on the pavement. A small group of four people stood by their luggages. I stepped out of the car, adjusting my suit, my eyes scanning the group.

​Then, my heart stopped.

​It didn't just beat but it slammed against my ribs so hard that it makes me feel sick.

​A woman was standing there, laughing at something her friend said. She turned her head, and the sun hit her dark brown hair.

​"Isabella?" The name ripped out of my lips.

​She heard me. Then she turned her face.

​It was her, the same nose, the same face, and the same lips, I had kissed a thousand times. This feels like a dream, and my knees almost gave out.

​But then I saw her eyes. Isabella’s eyes were always light and kind but his woman’s eyes were a dark, stormy blue. They looked sharp and cold.

​I didn't care. I ran to her and grabbed her, pulling her into a tight hug, crushing her against my chest. She was warm, real, and alive.

​"You're here," I choked out. "My only wish was just to see your face once. I didn't expect my wish could turn out this way."

​"Let… Me… Go!" ​It wasn't a whisper. It was a scream.

​Before I knew what was happening, she quickly hit me with her elbow on my stomach perfectly as I gasped for air, feeling sharp pain, she spun away from me like a fighter.

​"I don't know who you think you are!" she snapped. Her eyes were full of fire. "But if you touch me again, you’ll regret it."

​I stared at her, holding my stomach. "Isabella... it’s me, Alexander, your husband."

​The woman laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. ​"My name is Aria Bennett," she said firmly. "And you look like you’ve lost your mind."

​I went quiet. I stood up straight and just watched her. I didn't believe her for one second. She looked exactly like Isabella and she had the same mole behind her ear.

​"Aria Bennett," I repeated quietly as I forced myself to be calm. If she wanted to play a game, fine. I will play along. "Forgive me Miss Aria. You look exactly like my late wife."

​"That doesn't mean you can grab anyone you see" Ethan, the lead team of Architect, stepped forward. "We are here for work, Mr Sterling. This is crazy."

​I didn't look at him. 

"The cars are waiting," I said, my gaze still fixed on hers. "There has been a change in plans. You will not be staying at the hotel. My private estate is better suited for the security and privacy of this project."

"We have reservations at the Ritz," Aria countered, her eyes narrowing.

"The reservations are canceled," I said, the billionaire returning to his shell. "You are my guests. Or you can take the next flight back to New York and consider our contract void."

Aria looked like she wanted to spit at my feet, but she was a professional. She needed this project. After a tense silence, she marched toward the lead SUV.

The Sterling Estate was a fortress of marble and glass set on the edge of a cliff, mirroring the place where Isabella had died. I led the team into the grand hallway, the silence of the house was heavy and suffocating.

"Wait here," I commanded.

I walked to the end of the hall, where a massive frame was draped in black silk. I didn't hesitate. I pulled the cord, and the silk fell away.

It was our wedding portrait.

Isabella stood in a gown of French lace, her hair flowing over her shoulders, her blue-colored eyes radiating a warmth that could melt winter. She was laughing, her hand resting on my chest.

As soon as they saw the picture, a gasp echoed through the hallway. Aria’s friend, a young woman covered her mouth with her hand, and the two  men went pale.

Aria stepped forward, and stared at the portrait, her face turning white. Every detail was a mirror, the nose, the lips, the slight scar on the chin from a childhood fall.

She looked at the woman in the photo, then down at her own hands, as if checking if she was still there.

"No," she whispered, her voice trembling. "That's... that's impossible. That's not me. It can't be."

I stepped closer to her, my shadow falling over her.

"Is it, Miss Aria?" I leaned down, my breath against her ear. 

"Because that woman is my wife. My life. And you... are standing in her house.”