Ariana Fletcher Old Pictures Novels & Stories

“Habit I guess. Besides, I still don’t want your wife to know I’m here.” Wife. That word was a sharp reminder that Arianna still hasn't signed the divorce papers. Rumors were already circulating, thanks to a well-placed article online, but she was holding on–for what, I wasn’t sure. And I didn’t care. I knew what I wanted. I rifled through the stacks, my fingers brushing over the worn edges of countless folders. As I flipped through them, I found a set of photographs tucked inside with a familiar face. Mila’s mother, dressed in a pristine lab coat, standing in what appeared to be a research facility.

The pain in my chest feels as if a dagger has plunged into me, ripping through my heart on descent to my stomach with the entire length of the blade gutting me like a fish. A knock at the door startles me. I inhale deeply, hold it and pull my shirt up quickly to wipe away the dust and tears from my face. Ariana didn’t wait to hear permission to come in before throwing the door open. Upon seeing me on the floor, she rushes in and drops to her knees in front of me. Ariana always reminded me of a pixie fairy. She’s petite, but athletic. Her skin is fair. She keeps her black hair cut just below her chin and wears it straight.

she asked. I nodded and we headed out. The silence in the car during the drive to Paula’s was comfortable. We finally got to our destination and got a comfortable booth in the back. It was cozy, dimly lit, and rather private. We took our seats and made our orders. “I saw pictures of a girl in your house who looked like you. Is she your older sister?” I asked while we waited for our food. “Yes, she is. Her name is Ariana. She is two years older than me and is currently studying fashion design at NYU. I want to go there someday.”

KIERAN: Are you nearly ready? A second message followed before she could even answer. KIERAN: Just finishing this meeting. I’ll be heading back soon. Heat coiled low in her stomach. She nibbled her lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard, and then typed quickly. ARIA: Almost. But that wasn’t enough. Not tonight. On impulse, she lifted the phone, angling the camera to catch the sheer lace clinging to her curves, her glossy lips, the fall of her hair against bare shoulders. Her eyes in the picture, dark, daring, hungry, looked nothing like the shy girl she’d been weeks ago.

It was nothing but a curated lie. FLASHBACK — THE NIGHT BEFORE The study was bathed in a dim golden hue, the table littered with papers, Ariana’s laptop open in front of her, casting a blue glow on both their faces. She sat cross-legged on the velvet couch, Liam pacing beside her with one hand in his pocket, the other holding the photo they had discovered. “She looks different now. Older. But those eyes…” Ariana whispered, dragging her cursor across the screen. “She changed her name too. From Elena Morgan to Ellen March.”

Catalina had a copy of the entry photograph from the gallery wall. Age sixteen. The cemetery on the day of Iris's funeral. Aria in a black dress that was too big for her, her hair badly cut by a foster mother who had not known what she was doing. Aria standing alone at the graveside while a priest read words she did not hear. Catalina had been there. Behind a tree, possibly. From a distance. The photograph was grainy. But Catalina had been there. Aria's hands started to shake. "Damien."

she grinned evily as she moved to the corner to snatch the album from the ground. She took the album and moved to seat at the little balcony at the back of the treehouse. Since her legs were long and the house wasn't entirely designed for adults, she sat on the floor with her legs dangling down through the spaces of the railings. "This is so you! Oh my God!" Ariana exclaimed breaking down in laughter. It was a picture of Calhoun when he was six years old with missing teeth and huge glasses. Ariana couldn't stop herself from laughing.

But one detail pulled my attention immediately. Photographs. Dozens of them were scattered across the desk surface. Fred Whitmore. Jane. Young Elliot. Young Aria. Family events. Hospital visits. Corporate gatherings. Years of Whitmore history laid out like somebody had been reviewing the family piece by piece. Aria moved towards the desk slowly before stopping abruptly. “What is this?” Her voice sounded smaller somehow. I stepped beside her. Then I saw it too. One photograph sat isolated near the edge of the desk. Aria at sixteen.

In the stillness, Aria could hear the beat of her own pulse, feel it everywhere around her body. She opened her laptop to see dozens of unread emails. A few from investors and one from her father. But she ignored them all. Her gaze drifted to a framed photo tucked into the corner of the bookshelf behind her desk. She sneered down her nose at the one rare picture of her and Adrian, because he never liked taking pictures with her, at a charity event last fall. All smiles and lies. She turned the photo face-down. Willing herself not to throw it into the trash.