Chapter 2 - THE APPARITION IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
The silence that followed the tearing of the fabric was absolute.
Claudia froze, her breath catching in her throat with a wet, choking gasp. Her arms dropped to her sides as her eyes locked onto the floor between her designer pumps.
Adrian did not look at Claudia. His gaze dropped straight down to the glossy paper resting face-up on the dark marble.
Slowly, his tall, muscular frame descended. He bent at the knee, his bespoke black trousers pulling taut over his thighs, his large, tattooed right hand reaching out with a hesitation that was entirely foreign to him. His fingers hovered for half a second before his fingertips pressed against the edge of the photograph.
He lifted it into the morning light.
Adrian’s face changed. The cold, unreadable mask that had shielded him from the world for three long years fractured completely. The muscles along his jaw slackened; his lips parted slightly as the breath was wrenched from his lungs. The ink along his throat seemed to darken as the blood drained from his skin, leaving him an ashen, ghostly pale.
The photograph was taken in a private maternity suite.
In the center of the frame lay his late wife, Julianna. Her dark brown curls were damp against the white pillow, her pale, exhausted face glowing with the unmistakable, radiant joy of new motherhood. Cradled against her bare chest, resting in the crook of her arm, was an infant—a tiny, newborn baby girl with a dusting of dark hair, fast asleep.
And wrapped snugly around the infant’s shoulders, visible in crisp, photographic detail, was the exact same pink-and-white patchwork blanket.
Every stitch was identical: the tiny, faded floral print in the center square, the uneven hand-quilted diamond pattern along the edge, the small embroidered yellow bumblebee in the corner.
Behind Adrian, Ruby’s mother instinctively took a step back, her arms tightening around her daughter’s chest. Her eyes darted from the shredded blanket on the floor to the expression of raw, unraveling agony on the face of the man who ruled this house.
Ruby, sensing the sudden shift in the room's gravity, leaned her head against her mother's apron. Her large, curious hazel eyes looked at Adrian’s kneeling figure.
"Mr. Adrian?" the little girl asked softly, her voice sweet, innocent, and clear.
May you like
Adrian could not answer.
He could not draw enough air into his diaphragm to form a syllable. His thumb traced the plasticized surface of the photograph, touching the curve of his dead wife’s smile, while the room around him seemed to tilt on its axis.
