Chapter 2 - The Woman From His Past
For the next two weeks, Vanessa became the center of our company.
Every rehearsal room seemed to belong to her.
She arrived early.
She stayed late.
She accepted praise with perfect humility.
And somehow, every time I saw her, I felt as though she knew something I didn’t.
At first, I hated her.
It was easier that way.
She had taken my role.
She had returned to Vincent’s life.
She was beautiful, accomplished, and apparently impossible to compete with.
But hatred became difficult when Vanessa started doing something unexpected.
She defended me.
During one rehearsal, a senior choreographer suggested that perhaps I should be grateful for the understudy position because my body had been “showing limitations.”
Vanessa turned around.
“That isn’t fair.”
The room fell silent.
The choreographer frowned.
“You were not asked for an opinion.”
“I know.”
Vanessa looked at me.
“Claire earned her position.”
I didn’t understand her.
Neither did anyone else.
Later, in the hallway, she caught up with me.
“You think I stole this from you.”
“You didn’t?”
She stopped.
“No.”
“Your name is on the casting sheet.”
“Yes.”
“And my husband sponsored the production.”
Her expression changed.
“Vincent told you?”
“Told me what?”
She looked away.
“Nothing.”
“Vanessa.”
She closed her eyes.
“I didn’t ask him to sponsor anything.”
“Did you ask him for the role?”
“No.”
I wanted to believe her.
I didn’t.
“Did you love him?”
She looked directly at me.
“Yes.”
The answer hurt more than I expected.
“Do you still?”
She remained silent.
That silence was enough.
I walked away.
That night, Vincent finally came home before midnight.
He found me sitting in the library.
“You’re awake.”
“I was waiting.”
He removed his coat.
“For me?”
“For answers.”
He said nothing.
“Did you contact Vanessa before she returned?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“I don’t keep records of private conversations.”
“Did you love her?”
He stopped.
I felt something inside my chest collapse.
“Vincent.”
He looked at the window.
“She was important to me.”
Not yes.
Not no.
Something worse.
I stood.
“What happened between you?”
“It ended.”
“Why?”
“That was a long time ago.”
“So long that you thought you could hide it?”
His eyes hardened.
“I never lied.”
“You omitted.”
“That’s different.”
“To the person being deceived, it doesn’t feel different.”
He walked toward me.
“Claire, Vanessa’s return has nothing to do with our marriage.”
“Then why do you look at her like you’re remembering another life?”
He stopped.
I had never seen guilt cross his face before.
But it did now.
Very briefly.
Then it disappeared.
“She needs protection.”
I stared at him.
“Protection?”
“Yes.”
“From whom?”
“That isn’t your concern.”
I laughed.
“I’m your wife. Everything that can hurt you becomes my concern eventually.”
His voice dropped.
“Not this.”
That was the end of our conversation.
Or so I thought.
The next morning, I received an anonymous envelope at the company.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed Vincent and Vanessa standing outside an old theater.
They were young.
Maybe twenty-two.
Vanessa was smiling.
Vincent had one arm around her waist.
On the back, someone had written:
He never stopped loving her.
I stared at the photograph for a long time.
Then I noticed something.
There was another man in the background.
An older Moretti family associate.
I recognized him.
Marco Bellini.
Vincent’s uncle.
Marco had died five years earlier.
I turned the photograph over again.
A date was written beneath the message.
Eight years ago.
Eight years.
I looked at the picture again.
What had happened between them?
And why would someone send this to me now?
That evening, I followed Vincent.
I had never done anything like it before.
But suspicion had already become poison, and I needed to know.
His car left the city and stopped outside an abandoned theater.
I parked across the street.
Vincent entered.
Ten minutes later, Vanessa arrived.
They went inside together.
I waited.
Then I followed.
The theater was dark.
I heard voices coming from backstage.
I moved quietly.
“I told you she cannot know,” Vincent said.
Vanessa replied, “She deserves the truth.”
“Not yet.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because the truth could get her killed.”
I froze.
Killed?
“What are you talking about?” Vanessa demanded.
“My family has enemies.”
“And Claire?”
“They know she matters to me.”
Vanessa sounded angry.
“Then tell her why you chose me.”
There was a long pause.
“I didn’t choose you.”
“You paid for the role.”
“To keep you alive.”
I covered my mouth.
“What?”
Vanessa continued, “You knew they would come after me.”
“I knew.”
“And you used the production as cover.”
“Yes.”
“But Claire thinks you betrayed her.”
Vincent’s voice softened.
“I know.”
“Then tell her.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because if she knows why you came back, she becomes part of it.”
My heart pounded.
I stepped backward.
A floorboard creaked.
The voices stopped.
“Someone’s here,” Vincent said.
I ran.
I reached the street before anyone saw me.
I drove home with tears streaming down my face.
Not because Vincent might love Vanessa.
Not anymore.
Because I had just heard him say something far more frightening.
He hadn’t given Vanessa the role because he wanted her.
He had given it to her because he was trying to keep her alive.
But why?
And why had he never told me?
When Vincent returned home that night, he found me waiting in the living room.
He looked at me.
I said, “Who is trying to kill Vanessa?”
His face went completely still.
May you like
That was when I knew.
I had finally touched the truth.
