Chapter 3

Kingston Villa did not feel like home. It felt like a museum that happened to have bedrooms.

Amelia woke the next morning in the east guest suite, technically her suite now, though nothing in it belonged to her, from the monogrammed towels to the closet already filled with clothes in Olivia’s size, Olivia’s taste, Olivia’s favorite designer. Someone has prepared this room for a bride they expected, and Amelia had simply been slotted into the space left behind.

She found the housekeeper, a stern woman named Mrs. Whitfield, waiting outside her door with a tray of coffee and an expression that made it very clear she’d already formed an opinion.

‘Mrs.Kingston.” The title came out clipped, almost reluctant. “Breakfast is served at eight in the east conservatory. Mr. Kingston is working from his study this morning before he heads to the office.”

Mrs. Whitfield's eyes wept over her, quick and assessing, the way you might examine a piece of furniture that had arrived slightly damaged. “You're quieter than usual this morning. Will you be taking breakfast in the conservatory, or would you prefer the garden, as you normally do?”

“The conservatory’s fine,” Amelia said, careful to keep her voice even. “I'm just tired.”

Mrs. Whitfield’s expression didn't change, but something in her posture stiffened slightly, noted, filed away, another small deviation from the woman she was supposed to be.

Breakfast in the east conservatory turned out to be its own kind of. Adrian's aunt, a sharp-eyed woman named Delphine who introduced herself as though Amelia should already know exactly who she was, spent the better part of twenty minutes recounting stories about “you and Adrian " at events Amelia had never attended, describing conversations she’d never had, laughing at memories that belonged entirely to her sister.

Amelia smiled and nodded and said as little as possible, terrified that any real answer would expose her identity.

“You’re quieter than I remember,” Delphine finally said, studying her over the rim of the teacup. “Wedding nerves, I suppose.”

“Something like that.”

“Well.” Delphine set her cup down with a soft deliberate clink. “Adrian could use someone steady, if I’m honest. You were always good for him that way.”

She paused, tilting her head slightly, something considering in her expression that Amelia couldn't quite read.

“Though I'll admit,” Delphine added, almost idly, staring her tea though she'd already finished it, “you've never once corrected me for calling you Olivia. Not since the wedding. You used to hate people mixing you two up. You’d correct a stranger mid-sentence.

Amelia’s pulse spiked. “I suppose I've had bigger things on my mind.”

“I suppose you have.” Delphine’s smile didn't waver, pleasant and unreadable, the kind of smile that gave away nothing at all. “Forgive an old woman’s rambling. Eat your eggs before they are cold.”

Amelia forced another smile and excused herself the moment breakfast ended, her chest tight with the effort of holding an entire performance together over eggs and toast, telling herself that the flutter of unease in her stomach was nothing more than nerves catching up to her.

She found her way to the villa’s private garden an hour ago, needing air, needing space that didn't have someone else's memories layered over every surface. It was there, half hidden behind an overgrown hedge, that she found the greenhouse smaller than she expected, glass panes fogged with condensation, clearly used for some time.

Something about it pulled at her. She pushed open the door.

Inside, dust coated abandoned potting tables, dead plants long past saving in cracked terracotta pots. But on the far wall, half covered by a drop cloth, hung a portrait, a woman, young, darker hair, unmistakably related to Adrian by the sharp line of her jaw. Someone had deliberately hidden it here, in a room no one used anymore.

Amelia pulled the cloth aside.

The brass plate beneath the frame read: Eleanor Kingston, 1975-2001.

Adrian’s mother. Amelia did the math without meaning to, Adrian would have been maybe five years old.

A twig snapped behind her.

She spun around to find Adrian standing in the greenhouse doorway, his suit jacket already on, though he hadn't yet left for the office. His expression was unreadable, though something in his stillness told her he hadn't expected to find her here.

“This room is locked,” he said quietly. “Or it's supposed to be.”

“The door was open.”

“It wasn't.” He crossed the small space, his eyes moving from her face to the uncovered portrait behind her, something flickering across his features too fast for her to name. “You shouldn't be in here.”

“Why? Because it's your mother, or because you don't want me asking why her portrait is hidden in an abandoned greenhouse instead of hanging somewhere in that house full of ancestors?”

“My mother died when I was five,” he said finally. “Officially, of a long illness.”

“Unofficially?”

He looked at her for a long moment, weighing something, and Amelia had the distinct sense of watching a man decide how much rope to give a stranger he didn't yet trust.

“Unofficially,” Adrian said, “is a conversation for another day. One you're not ready for yet.” He glanced at his watch, something tightening in his jaw. “I need to leave for the office. Delphine will send a search party if you miss lunch, so don't linger out here too long.”

Amelia followed him as far as the garden path, glancing back once at the greenhouse before it disappeared behind the hedge. Whatever this secret this family was protecting, she understood now, it didn't begin with Olivia’s disappearance.

It began decades before either of them was born.

That night, alone in the east suite, Amelia sat on the edge of the bed and finally allowed herself to call the one person who might still recognize her as herself, rather than as anyone’s replacement.

“Tell me you're joking,” Sofia said the moment she picked up, her voice tight with disbelief even through the phone. “Tell me you did not actually marry him.”

“I didn't have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice, Amelia.”

“Not when your grandmother is holding the family’s entire future over your head, there isn't.” Amelia pulled her knees up to her chest, suddenly exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the hour. “Sofia, something’s wrong here. Not just Olivia disappearing. There's.. I found a portrait today. Adrian’s mother. Hidden away like someone wanted her erased.”

Sofia was quiet for a moment. “Erased how?”

“I don't know yet. But I’m going to find out.” Amelia glanced towards the door, lowering her voice out of habit even though she was alone. “Whatever happened to her, I think it's connected to whatever made Olivia run. And nobody in this house is going to tell me the truth unless I find it myself.”

“Be careful,” Sofia said quietly. “Please. Whatever that is, it clearly scared your sister badly enough to disappear the morning of her own wedding.”

Amelia looked toward the window, toward the dark shape of the garden below, the greenhouse somewhere out there in the shadows, guarding its secret behind fogged glass.

“I know,” she said. “That's exactly why I can't stop looking.”