Pictures Never Tell the Truth
The storm that had drenched the city through the night had passed, leaving the air thick and heavy. Clara watched the sunlight slide across the breakfast table while the staff moved quietly in the background. The seat beside her was empty again. Ethan had gone to the office before dawn.
Mandaline entered, her silk robe trailing softly behind her. "He left early," she said, as if reading Clara's thoughts.
Clara nodded. "He said there was an urgent meeting."
The older woman poured herself tea, movements graceful and precise. "Isabella asked to accompany him. She claimed she wanted to discuss the new charity board."
Clara's fingers tightened around her cup. "Of course she did."
Mandaline's gaze lifted to her. "You don't trust her."
"I don't know her."
"That's enough reason," Mandaline murmured. "But be careful, child. Suspicion has a way of hurting the one who carries it."
---
At Blackwood Industries, Isabella's laughter filled the hallway as she matched Ethan's stride. Cameras flashed outside—the media still fascinated by the CEO's wife and his guest. Ethan barely noticed; Isabella did. She slowed just enough for a photographer to catch them standing close, her hand brushing his arm.
Inside the office, Damien raised an eyebrow when he saw the photo upload ping across social media minutes later. "That woman is faster than PR."
Ethan rubbed his temple. "I told her not to make a scene."
"Mission failed," Damien said, scrolling. "You're trending again. Congratulations, boss. You and your 'mystery companion.'"
Ethan's eyes hardened. "Handle it."
---
By the time he got home that evening, the photo had already spread. A popular gossip account had captioned it:
> The CEO's Bride—Or the CEO's Past?
Clara sat in the living room, the newspaper folded neatly beside her. She didn't look up when he entered.
"I wanted to tell you," he began.
"But you didn't."
"I was at a meeting. She insisted on coming."
"And you couldn't say no?" Her tone was calm, too calm.
He sighed. "You're angry."
"I'm tired," she corrected. "Tired of being the one who's supposed to understand every choice you make."
Before he could answer, Isabella appeared in the doorway. "Oh, good, you're both here. I was just telling Eleanor—the press is being ridiculous. We should issue a joint statement."
Ethan turned sharply. "This is private, Isabella."
She blinked, feigning innocence. "Of course. I only wanted to help."
Clara stood. "You've helped enough."
Her voice didn't rise, but it cut through the room like glass. She walked past them, head held high.
---
Later, Damien found her sitting outside under the veranda, staring at the rain gutters dripping onto the stones.
"You know," he said quietly, "half the people online think the photo was edited."
Clara smiled without humor. "And the other half?"
"They think Isabella's trying to make headlines again. She used to love attention."
"Then she hasn't changed," Clara whispered.
Damien hesitated. "Ethan's stupid sometimes, but he's not cruel. He wouldn't humiliate you on purpose."
Clara looked up, eyes glassy but steady. "I don't think he means to hurt me, Damien. I just think he doesn't know when he's doing it."
---
In another wing of the mansion, Mandaline and Eleanor argued quietly.
"You shouldn't have invited Isabella to stay," Mandaline said.
"She needed a place," Eleanor replied. "Besides, Ethan owes her courtesy."
"What he owes her," Mandaline snapped, "is distance."
Their voices carried down the corridor where Isabella stood, listening, her expression sharpening.
"So," she whispered to herself, "even his mother doesn't trust me. Perfect."
Her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number:
> Want to make her leave him? I can help.
Isabella stared at the screen, curiosity glinting in her eyes. "Well," she murmured, "that could be interesting."
---
That night, Ethan found Clara already in bed, eyes closed, pretending to sleep. He stood there for a long moment, guilt and frustration twisting inside him.
He wanted to tell her the truth—that Isabella's return scared him, that she reminded him of a man he used to be, and he hated that Clara might think he missed that version.
But the words never came. He turned off the light instead.
In the darkness, Clara whispered just loud enough for herself to hear, "Maybe love isn't enough if the past never leaves."
The silence that followed was the loudest sound in the room.