PART 2: It was his wife. Not similar. Identical.
Rafael’s grip loosened. The document folder slipped from his fingers and scattered across the polished floor. His heart hammered so violently that his vision blurred.
The woman by the door turned sharply. “Sir, are you alright?”
Rafael pointed toward the portrait, his hand trembling. “Who is she?”
The maid hesitated, her expression tightening. “That is the former owner of this estate. She passed away three years ago.”
Rafael swallowed hard. “What was her name?”
The woman looked away before answering. “Her name was Aurora Kingsley.”
Rafael’s knees weakened. He gripped the back of a chair to steady himself. His wife at home was named Aurora. He had eaten breakfast with her that morning. She had kissed his cheek and asked him to drive carefully.
The maid stepped closer. “Please sit down. You look unwell.”
But Rafael was already moving toward the exit. He gathered the scattered documents without care, thrust them into the maid’s hands, and rushed outside. His motorbike roared to life as he sped away, leaving the mansion behind but unable to leave the image burned into his mind.
He reached their small apartment within minutes. Aurora was in the kitchen, slicing vegetables for dinner. She smiled when she saw him, then frowned at his expression.
“Rafael, what happened?”
He crossed the room and held her shoulders, searching her face as if confirming she was real. “Tell me the truth. Who are you?”
Aurora stiffened. “What are you talking about?”
“There is a portrait of you in a mansion on Briarstone Avenue. Funeral candles, black ribbons, your face, your name. They say you died three years ago.”
The knife slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the cutting board.
