CHAPTER 2: THE PORTRAIT OF A STRANGER

ELARA'S POV

The air in the private wing of St. Jude’s Clinic smelled of sterile ozone and expensive lilies.

I stood in the shadowed alcove of the pharmacy corridor, a small brown paper bag containing my basic daily supplements clutched against my ribs. I hadn't meant to follow them. But when Lucien left the house without looking back, a desperate, pathetic part of me still needed to see it with my own eyes.

Through the floor-to-ceiling glass panel leading out to the sunlit private courtyard, I saw them.

Lucien stood near a white marble fountain, his dark wool coat unbuttoned, looking down with a rare, relaxed warmth in his eyes. Standing beside him was Celestine Ardent, radiant in a cream cashmere coat, her soft laughter carrying faintly through the glass.

And between them was seven-year-old Amelie.

My breath hitched in my chest. Amelie was twirling in a pale pink dress, her dark curls bouncing under the morning sun. Celestine knelt gracefully beside her, taking a velvet ribbon from her coat pocket and delicately smoothing back a loose strand of hair over Amelie's ear.

"There, darling," Celestine’s light, melodic voice echoed as the glass door shifted slightly in the breeze. "Now you look like a little princess for your lunch date with Daddy."

Amelie beamed, throwing her small arms around Celestine’s neck. "Thank you, Auntie Celestine! You always make my hair look so pretty!"

Lucien reached out, resting his large hand affectionately on top of Amelie's head, then looked up at Celestine with a quiet, appreciative nod. "She usually refuses to let anyone touch her hair in the morning."

"That's because Mommy always pulls it too tight and hurts me!" Amelie giggled, clinging to Celestine’s skirt. "Auntie Celestine is much softer."

A sharp, violent pain tore through my heart, far worse than any autoimmune flare-up. I took a step out from the shadows, the glass door sliding open with a soft, mechanical hiss.

"Amelie?" My voice was thin, trembling as I stepped onto the cobblestone terrace.

The laughter stopped instantly.

Lucien’s face hardened, the brief warmth in his pale eyes vanishing behind a wall of icy composure. "Elara? What are you doing here?"

"I was picking up my prescription," I whispered, keeping my eyes fixed on my daughter. "Amelie... sweetie, come here."

I knelt down on the cold stone, holding my arms open to her. My heart hammered against my ribs, begging for just one sign that my little girl still knew me.

Amelie didn't move. Instead, her small brow furrowed into a scowl. She stepped backward, hiding herself behind the soft cream fabric of Celestine’s coat, her small fingers clutching Celestine’s hand tightly.

"No," Amelie said plainly. "I don't want to go to you. You're always sad and boring."

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. "Amelie, please..."

"Elara, stop this," Lucien warned, his voice cutting through the air like a winter wind. "You're making a scene in public."

"A scene?" I looked up at him, my eyes wide with disbelief. "Lucien, she is my daughter! Look at how she's holding her!"

Celestine put on a look of gentle, sorrowful sympathy, placing a protective hand over Amelie’s shoulder. "Elara, please don't be upset with the child. She's just happy because we promised to take her to the tea room after my consultation. You know how sensitive she is to your... mood shifts."

"Don't speak to me about my daughter, Celestine," I choked out, standing up on shaky legs. "Lucien, tell her. Tell Amelie to come to her mother."

Lucien didn't move. He stood tall, his arms crossed over his chest, his silence heavier than a physical blow. He looked down at me not as a husband, but as a superior addressing a troubled subordinate.

"Amelie is free to choose who she feels comfortable around," Lucien said flatly. "If you acted like a proper mother instead of isolating yourself in your room with your herbs and bottles, perhaps she wouldn't lean on Celestine."

"I was sick, Lucien!" I cried out, the words bursting from my chest before I could stop them. "I was in bed for weeks because…"

"We all get tired, Elara," Lucien interrupted smoothly, his tone devoid of a single drop of pity. "Your constant health complaints are becoming an excuse for neglecting your family duties."

Celestine looked up at Lucien, a faint, barely perceptible smirk playing at the corner of her lips before she smoothed her face back into concern. "Lucien is right, Elara. You really ought to take better care of yourself. Amelie needs a positive role model, not someone who looks like a ghost every morning."

"Auntie Celestine is much prettier than you anyway," Amelie added, peering out from behind Celestine’s coat with a stubborn, defiant pout. "And she doesn't smell like bitter plants."

I felt the blood drain entirely from my face. Eight years of devotion, eight years of carrying Amelie in my arms when she was a baby, of staying up through every fever, of singing her to sleep while Lucien was away at the hospital…all erased by a woman who brought her expensive toys and hollow praise.

"Amelie..." I took one desperate, helpless step forward, reaching my hand out to touch my daughter's soft cheek. "Sweetheart, look at me..."

Before my fingers could even graze her skin, Amelie raised her small hand and slapped mine away with a sharp crack.

"Don't touch me!" Amelie shouted, recoiling into Celestine’s side. "I want Auntie Celestine to be my real mommy!"

The sound of her tiny palm hitting my hand echoed in the quiet courtyard.

My hand hung uselessly in the air, burning where she had struck me. I looked at my daughter's glaring eyes, then up at Celestine’s subtle, victorious smile, and finally at Lucien.

Lucien merely looked at his watch, completely unbothered. "We're going to be late for the reservation, Celestine. Let's go."

He turned away without another word, taking Celestine by the elbow as they walked toward the clinic entrance. Amelie skipped happily between them, holding both of their hands, laughing as Lucien lifted her over a puddle.

Not once did any of them look back.

I stood alone in the center of the courtyard, surrounded by the scent of sterile lilies and expensive perfume, holding my bruised hand against my chest.