“Do you recognize me?”
I swallowed.
“You’re my employer.”
“Before that.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“Think carefully.”
“I am thinking!”
My voice cracked.
Every guest in the room seemed to be watching.
I could feel their curiosity.
Their suspicion.
Their fear.
And behind them stood Isabella Romano.
Her face was white.
She looked as though someone had just pulled the floor out from beneath her.
“Darling,” she whispered, “this is ridiculous.”
Luca didn’t turn.
“Be quiet.”
She flinched.
He placed the photograph on the table.
“Five years ago, my wife disappeared during a fire at our lake house.”
I stared at him.
“Everyone said she died.”
“That’s what I was told.”
He looked down.
“But her body was never conclusively identified.”
A murmur passed through the guests.
I took a step backward.
“No.”
Luca looked at me.
“No what?”
“I’m not your wife.”
His face tightened.
“I haven’t said you are.”
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
He didn’t answer.
I turned toward the photograph again.
Something about it bothered me.
Not just the woman’s face.
The background.
A stone balcony.
White roses.
A lake.
And a church bell tower visible beyond the trees.
Suddenly, an image flashed through my mind.
Rain against glass.
A man’s hands fastening a necklace around my throat.
A voice whispering:
If anything happens, remember the blue room.
I gasped.
Luca stepped forward.
“Emma?”
I grabbed the table.
The room tilted.
“What’s happening to me?”
He reached toward me but stopped before touching my arm.
“You’re safe.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Safe? Someone tried to drug me, there’s a fake passport with my face on it, and you’re telling me I might be your dead wife!”
Luca’s expression darkened.
“You’re right.”
He turned to Marco.
“Call the police. Preserve everything. Nobody touches the suitcase.”
Hale stood near the far wall, watched by two guards.
He had stopped pretending to be offended.
Now he looked frightened.
Isabella moved toward Luca.
“Darling, please. We can discuss this privately.”
Luca turned.
“Did you know about the passport?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“The photograph?”
“No.”
“Then why did you scream when I showed it to Emma?”
Isabella opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Luca waited.
Finally, she whispered, “Because I knew it would upset her.”
I stared at her.
“How?”
She looked at me.
“What?”
“How did you know it would upset me?”
Her lips trembled.
Luca’s voice became colder.
“Answer her.”
Isabella took a breath.
“Because she’s been unstable.”
The words struck me harder than I expected.
“Unstable?”
“She’s confused, Luca. Look at her.”
I felt heat rise into my face.
“You tried to make me drink something that could have rendered me unconscious.”
Isabella’s expression twisted.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then tell me what was in the bottle.”
She said nothing.
Luca stepped between us.
“Enough.”
He looked toward the guards.
“Isabella and Hale will remain available for the police. Separate them.”
Isabella’s eyes widened.
“You can’t do this to me!”
Luca stared at her.
“Watch me.”
She began crying.
But this time, nobody rushed to comfort her.
An hour later, I sat in Luca’s private study.
The police had arrived.
The guests had been interviewed and allowed to leave.
Hale and Isabella were being questioned separately.
The glass and suitcase had been taken as evidence.
A physician had examined me after my dizzy spell.
He found no sign that I had consumed the suspicious drink, but recommended a full medical evaluation.
I sat on the edge of a leather sofa, wrapped in a blanket.
Luca stood beside the fireplace.
Neither of us spoke.
Finally, I whispered, “I want to go home.”
He turned.
“Of course.”
I looked at him.
“You’re not going to stop me?”
“No.”
“Even if you think I’m your wife?”
His face changed.
“I don’t know who you are, Emma.”
I swallowed.
“But I know someone tried to hurt you tonight.”
He sat opposite me.
“And I know the woman in that photograph was named Elena Moretti.”
I stared at the carpet.
“Tell me about her.”
He remained silent for a long moment.
Then he spoke.
“Her name was Elena Bennett before we married.”
My head snapped up.
“Bennett?”
He nodded.
“Yes.”
“That’s my last name.”
“I know.”
I felt cold.
Luca leaned forward.
“She was twenty-one when we met. She worked at a community center on Chicago’s South Side.”
I stared at him.
“She hated expensive gifts. Loved old movies. Always put cinnamon in her coffee.”
My hands began trembling.
I put cinnamon in my coffee.
Every morning.
He continued.
“She had a little scar beneath her left eyebrow. She said she got it falling off a bicycle when she was eight.”
I touched my face.
That was exactly what my mother had told me.
