Chapter 4 Shadows in the frame

Chapter 4

Shadows in the Frame

Racheal Miller had always been the most intuitive of her sisters. Raised in a household layered with silent resentments and unspoken loyalties, she developed the skill of reading between lines-of tracing truth in breath and posture. Her elder sister, Clarisse, was the nurturing one, too patient for confrontation. Elna, the youngest, was wild and free-spirited, often aloof to deeper currents. Racheal, however... Racheal listened. She listened now, too.

To the uncomfortable quiet that settled over her phone calls with Allen. To the hesitation in his voice when she brought up Marseille. To the way he always changed the subject when she mentioned Cruz.

And Allen Walker never changed the subject.

It had begun innocently enough-a clipped headline in a political blog referencing "Allen's creative sabbatical" in 2012. But the post had since been removed. Then came the documents, half-leaked and grainy, screenshots of something larger, more tangled. Racheal had kept copies. One name circled in red ink: Cruz.

When she confronted Allen, he laughed. Said it was a fake scandal cooked up by his rivals. that he had been hiding out in Nice and working on a screenplay that never came to fruition. His calm had been too perfect. Almost practiced.

So Racheal did what her gut demanded.

She hired Michael Wright.

A former FBI surveillance expert turned private investigator, Michael had built a quiet but formidable reputation in discreet circles. He wasn't flashy-he didn't need to be. His value lay in what he could make people forget they told him.

"You're not looking for proof of cheating," he had said on their first meeting. "You're looking for something deeper. Like a double life."

Racheal didn't deny it.

Michael dug. She funded. The deeper he went, the stranger the trail became. Flights logged under aliases. Wire transfers routed through Cyprus. A Swiss account tied to a shell corporation owned by someone named "C. Estienne."

Cruz Estienne?

Racheal didn't know. But her instincts clenched whenever the name surfaced.

Still, nothing about Allen changed. He remained impeccable. A perfect fiancé in the public eye. Their engagement had been widely celebrated-photos of their matching watches, vacation snapshots in Dubrovnik, magazine interviews that painted them as a golden couple.

Yet Racheal felt like she was living beside a stranger wearing Allen's face.

Her sisters were unable to comprehend her suspicions. Clarisse, ever practical, warned her not to sabotage a good thing. "He loves you," she had said. "You know that, right?"

Racheal Miller is the kind of woman who walks into a room and commands attention-not with noise, but with a silent strength that wraps around her like silk. Intelligent, composed, and fiercely independent, she exudes a grace shaped by years of navigating a world that often demanded more than it gave. Her poised demeanor masks a mind always in motion, constantly questioning, analyzing, and uncovering layers others would rather keep hidden. She's sharp-eyed, intuitive, and never one to take things at face value.

Despite her outward charm, Racheal has an iron will. She's a natural protector-especially when it comes to her family-and nothing unsettles her more than secrets. That's why her sister's estranged engagement has sparked more than casual concern. From the beginning, something about the arrangement didn't sit right with Racheal. There were too many half-answers, too many awkward silences. Racheal thought that despite being well-spoken and polished, her sister's fiancé appeared to be a man hiding behind a practiced smile. His eyes were too calculating, his presence too rehearsed.

Racheal's suspicion isn't born from jealousy or bitterness, but from a gut instinct she's learned to trust. She begins to observe closely-overheard phone calls, concealed documents, and shifts in her sister's mood. It's in these subtleties that she sees the cracks. Her protective nature shifts into quiet investigation. She isn't afraid to dig into the past, knock on old doors, or cross moral lines if it means uncovering the truth.

To outsiders, Racheal may seem too involved, maybe even obsessive. But in her mind, she's saving her sister from a trap disguised as love. And if it means breaking a few rules or unearthing painful truths, so be it. She would rather be hated for meddling than stand silent while her sister walks into ruin.

But Racheal wasn't so sure anymore. Because love had no place for shadows.

She remembered something their stepbrother, Jordan, once told her when they were kids. "Lies grow roots. And if you don't dig them out, they crack the house from the inside."

Michael sent her an encrypted folder one evening.

No subject. No message. Just a link.

Inside were photos-grainy but damning. Allen meeting with a man who looked suspiciously like a former intelligence asset in the Marseille underworld. They shook hands. Later, they vanished down an alley. Timestamp: June 2012.

She couldn't breathe.

Then came the note, taped to her apartment door the next morning: Stop digging. People get hurt. No name No fingerprints.

Someone knew.

Racheal's world spun.

She didn't tell anyone, not Jordan, her sisters, or Michael. She changed her phone. Booked a hotel under a different name. And waited.

One night, at a private art gala Allen had insisted she attend, she studied him across the room. Everything about him glowed-his suit, his smile, his effortless charisma. He introduced her to diplomats, to actors, to a tech mogul who shook her hand like she was royalty.

And yet... the whole time, his hand never strayed far from his pocket.

Was he armed?

Was she paranoid?

These questions began to stitch themselves into her mind, tight and sharp.

Allen kissed her forehead that night. "Love, I missed you. Is everything fine? She smiled.

Everything was far from good.

Rain fell, soft but steady, as Racheal sat in the back of Michael's car outside a government building she never imagined she'd visit. The windshield blurred the city lights, but her thoughts were sharper than ever.

"He's laundering something," Michael said flatly. "The accounts match a pattern. He's not doing it for money. This is about movement. Cover. Possibly people."

"People?" Her voice cracked.

"Cruz isn't a person anymore. Cruz is a codename."

She felt her stomach twist.

"There's more," Michael added. "You're being followed. They knew you'd contact someone like me. That note wasn't a bluff."

A black SUV rolled past them slowly.

"See?"

Her heart thundered. The world felt suddenly hostile. Michael reached for a small pistol beneath his coat.

"I can't protect you if you don't take this seriously, Racheal."

She stared at the gun, at her reflection in the metal. Then back to the night outside-blurred, endless, full of watching eyes.

"I loved him," she whispered.

Michael's jaw tightened. "You do still. But you're not safe. Not from Allen. Not from Cruz."

She exhaled a shaky breath and nodded. "Then we bring him down."