The Donna Who Vanished from the Portrait Chapter 03

The Donna Who Vanished from the Portrait Chapter 03

One month later, the final version of the portrait was finished. I had spent that entire month living in the west wing.

The day before the unveiling gala was the anniversary of my mother’s death.

Adrian still hadn’t moved Elena and Sophie out, yet he had promised to accompany me to the memorial service.

Knowing full well it might be another lie, I clung to one last, foolish hope that he would keep his word.

Breakfast had barely begun when Sophie’s headmistress called, just as she had in my past life.

The school was shooting class group photos. Every other child stood with their parents, while Sophie had locked herself inside the car and refused to come out.

Elena’s eyes were red and puffy. “I’ll go alone. Sophie has no father figure. She’ll just have to bear the other children’s mockery.”

Adrian grabbed his car keys.

I stood there holding a bouquet of white lilies. “Adrian. Who are you choosing to be with today?”

He paused, then walked over to straighten the collar of my dress. “We can visit the cemetery any day. This is Sophie’s only chance for her school photograph.”

“Today is the anniversary of my mother’s passing.”

“I know.” His thumb stroked gently over my chin, his tone softening. “Your mother raised you better than this. Did she ever teach you to compete with a child?”

“She didn’t teach me to share my husband with another woman’s daughter.”

Adrian’s face darkened. “Don’t be crass..”

“Elena and Sophie have nowhere else to turn. You lose only half a day with me. What real difference does that make?”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead, as though my words hadn’t landed at all.

“I’ll have dinner with you tonight, and we will lay flowers for your mother afterward.”

“Seven o’clock sharp.” I met his eyes. “Don’t come after seven.”

Adrian gave a perfunctory nod. “Very well.”

The chauffeur drove me out to the cemetery. Halfway along the route, Adrian called the driver.

“The Don orders me to drive straight to the school. Sophie supposedly came down with a low-grade fever right after the photoshoot. She needs to be taken to the clinic.”

The driver glanced back at me, hesitating. “Madam, should I drop the child off first and then come back for you?”

I grabbed my umbrella and stepped out of the car. “Go ahead.”

A violent storm rolled in quickly, blocking the mountain roads. The cemetery shuttle service shut down, and my cell phone lost all signal.

I walked for two hours through pouring rain before I finally flagged down a car at the foot of the mountain.

When I got back to the Moretti estate, the main hall was warm and lit.

Adrian, Elena, and Sophie sat around a low coffee table, pressing their hands into paint. Three small handprints side by side, with scrawled handwriting underneath: Our Family.

Sophie saw me and quickly hid the drawing behind her back.

Adrian lifted his head, his expression shifting. “The driver never came back for you?”

“You recalled him.”

He frowned and immediately pulled off his suit jacket to drape it over my shoulders. “I had no idea the storm would get this bad. Why did you not find another car down at the mountain base?”

The jacket carried Elena’s signature perfume. I slipped it off my shoulders and handed it back.

His features turned icy. “I came back to comfort you. Why are you still behaving this way?”

Elena brought over a mug of ginger tea. “Margaret, this is all my fault. Sophie kept crying for Adrian, and I couldn’t calm her.”

“This isn’t your fault,” Adrian said, taking the mug from her hands and pressing it into mine. “She’s in a foul mood today. Don’t take her anger out on Elena.”

He felt the ice in my fingertips and his frown deepened. “Drink this. If you develop a fever, I’ll look after you until you recover.”

Sophie coughed softly from where she sat.

Adrian spun around at once, lifted her into his arms, and pulled the only blanket from my shoulders to wrap it tight around the little girl. “Coughing again? Did I not tell you not to sit in a draft?”

At seven in the evening, the dinner for my mother’s memorial was set on the table.

At eight, Sophie still ran a low fever.

At nine, Adrian sent word through the butler: he would return once the child fell asleep.

At one o’clock in the morning, only stubs of candle wax remained on the dining table.

A servant approached me. “Madam, should I keep the Don’s place setting warm?”

I picked up his empty wine glass and returned it to the cabinet. “Clear his place.”

I returned to the west wing and instructed my lawyer to draw up divorce papers. But I didn’t sign them—not yet.

Tomorrow night was the portrait unveiling gala. If he took down that painting and restored my rightful position, I would tear the papers to pieces.

Footsteps sounded outside my door. I didn’t open it.

The footsteps moved on, toward Sophie’s bedroom.