The morning sun filtered weakly through the tall windows of the Rossi mansion. The housekeeper moved quietly down the hallways, her steps careful not to wake the sleeping master of the house. Somewhere upstairs, the faint echo of water running in the shower broke the silence.
Amira sat by the edge of the bed, the silk sheets wrapped loosely around her body. Her gaze lingered on the large painting above the fireplace — a woman with long chestnut hair, soft eyes, and a smile that seemed to reach through the years. She had seen that face before, not just in that painting but in the small framed photograph on Leonardo's desk.
"Elise," Amira whispered, the name tasting unfamiliar yet heavy on her tongue.
It had been a week since the wedding — a week since she had become Mrs. Leonardo Rossi in name only. Their marriage was still a performance, a convenient arrangement tied together by paper and circumstance. But each day under the same roof, she felt the walls closing in with secrets she couldn't name.
Leonardo had been distant. Not cruel, not unkind — just unreachable. Every morning he left early for work, his expression carved from stone. Every night he returned late, carrying the scent of expensive cologne and exhaustion. He hardly spoke, and when he did, his voice held that quiet authority that made her feel small yet safe at the same time.
Still, Amira couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to him than what he allowed her to see. The house itself seemed to hum with memories that weren't hers — laughter from the past, shadows that refused to fade.
That morning, when she had entered his study to leave a breakfast tray, she noticed the photograph again. A woman smiling beside Leonardo, both looking effortlessly happy. And behind the frame, a tiny inscription: "Always yours – E."
Amira didn't mean to touch it, but curiosity pulled her closer. Her fingers brushed the glass, and she felt a sudden rush of something like guilt. Who was she to invade his past? She stepped back quickly, but it was too late — the sound of footsteps echoed behind her.
Leonardo stood by the doorway, half-dressed in his suit, his expression unreadable.
"What are you doing here?" His tone wasn't angry, but there was an edge to it.
"I—I brought your breakfast," Amira stammered. "Maria said you hadn't eaten yet."
His eyes flicked to the tray, then to the photograph she had been staring at. A moment of silence stretched between them.
"You shouldn't touch my things," he said quietly.
"I wasn't—" she started, then stopped. There was no point defending herself; it would sound like an excuse.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, Amira. There are things in this house that belong to the past. Things better left untouched."
The words stung more than she expected. "You mean her."
Leonardo's gaze hardened, then softened. He looked at her as if debating whether to speak or walk away. Finally, he said, "Yes. Her name was Elise."
Was. The word sat heavy in the air.
Amira lowered her eyes. "I'm sorry."
He nodded once, a quick movement, then turned toward the window. "She died three years ago. Car accident."
Silence settled like dust. Amira didn't know what to say — condolences felt meaningless when faced with the kind of loss he carried in his eyes.
"I didn't know," she said softly.
"You weren't supposed to," he replied, his voice low. "This arrangement isn't about the past. It's about business. Nothing more."
The reminder sliced through her chest. She forced a smile, though her throat burned. "Of course."
But as she turned to leave, Leonardo's hand brushed hers — not intentionally, perhaps, but enough to send a current of warmth through her skin. For a heartbeat, he looked like he wanted to say something else. Then, as always, he shut himself away behind that unreadable mask.
That night, Amira couldn't sleep. The image of the woman in the photograph haunted her. Elise. The name sounded too perfect, too delicate, like a melody that lingered long after the music stopped.
She found herself wandering down the hallway again, barefoot, guided only by the soft glow of moonlight. The house was quiet, except for the ticking of an antique clock.
At the far end of the corridor, she noticed a door she hadn't seen before — slightly ajar. Curiosity drew her closer. She hesitated, then pushed it open.
Inside was a small studio, filled with canvases and brushes. Paintings covered every inch of the walls — portraits, landscapes, and sketches — but one caught her breath: Leonardo, painted with stunning realism, his eyes alive with warmth and something close to love.
And beside it, a self-portrait of Elise.
The date at the corner read: Three days before the wedding.
Amira's chest tightened. She stepped closer, running her hand over the edge of the canvas. Elise's talent was undeniable — her strokes were bold yet graceful, full of feeling. And suddenly, Amira felt impossibly small. How could she ever compete with a ghost?
Behind her, the floor creaked.
"Couldn't sleep either?"
She turned sharply. Leonardo leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
"I didn't mean to intrude," Amira said quickly. "I just—"
"Wanted to know about her," he finished for her.
She swallowed. "Yes."
He stepped inside, his presence filling the room. "She painted everything here," he said quietly. "This was her world. I've tried to keep it untouched."
Amira's voice dropped. "You loved her very much."
Leonardo met her gaze. For once, there was no barrier, no coldness. "She was the only person who ever understood me completely."
The honesty in his tone made Amira's throat ache. She wanted to look away but couldn't.
"I'm not asking you to forget her," she said softly. "But maybe… don't shut the rest of the world out because of her."
He studied her for a long time, the air between them heavy with unspoken things. Then he said, "You remind me of her sometimes."
Her breath caught. "I'm not her."
"I know." He stepped closer. "That's what makes this harder."
Their eyes locked. For a moment, time stilled — only the faint hum of electricity and their quickened breaths filled the room. Leonardo's hand brushed against her cheek, tentative, testing.
Amira didn't move away.
But before either of them could say another word, his phone buzzed sharply in his pocket. He pulled back, the moment breaking like glass.
He glanced at the screen, his face darkening. "I have to take this."
And just like that, he was gone — leaving her standing in a room full of memories that weren't hers, with the ghost of a woman she could never replace.
Amira sank into the nearest chair, tears stinging her eyes. She didn't know why she cared so much — it was supposed to be a contract, nothing more. But her heart was betraying her in ways she didn't understand.
She looked once more at Elise's portrait and whispered, "What did you leave behind that still holds him so tightly?"
Outside, thunder rolled in the distance. The storm was coming — not just in the sky, but inside their hearts too.