Chapter 3

Julian came home later that evening.

He looked tired, his brow furrowed, a common look for him when he was deep in thought about his research.

"Ellie?" he called out, his voice echoing slightly in the hallway.

Isabelle glided towards him, a smile plastered on my face.

"Julian, darling, you're back," she cooed, her tone a little too bright, a little too eager.

I always greeted him with a softer, "Hi, you're home."

He paused, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly.

"Everything alright?" he asked, his gaze lingering on her.

"Perfectly," Isabelle replied, linking her arm through his. "I was just admiring our memories."

She gestured to the dioramas.

He looked at them, then back at her.

"You finished the one of Miller's Pond?" he asked, referring to a specific detail, a tiny boat I' d been struggling with.

Isabelle hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Oh, yes, it's... lovely."

She didn't know. I hadn't finished it. I'd told him about the trouble with the rigging just yesterday.

Julian didn't press, but a flicker of something unreadable crossed his face.

Later, he brought out a small, velvet box.

"I picked this up today," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "The antique thimble you wanted. For your work."

He had commissioned it, a special silver one with tiny engravings. I'd been so excited.

Isabelle opened the box.

"Oh," she said, her voice polite. "It's very... nice. Thank you, Julian."

She didn't gasp. She didn't trace the engravings with her finger. She didn't exclaim how perfect it was.

The genuine joy, the kind Ellie would have shown, was absent.

Julian watched her, his expression unreadable.

He took the thimble from her and placed it on my workbench.

"Don't lose it," he said, his voice flat.

Isabelle tried to be more seductive that night, more sophisticated than I ever was.

I was always a little shy, a little simpler in my affections.

She wore one of my silk robes, one I rarely used, and her movements were overtly sensual.

Julian remained composed, almost distant.

He was noticing. I could feel it.

The small, jarring notes in her performance were accumulating.

Isabelle, frustrated by his lack of enthusiastic response, let a flash of irritation cross her face when she thought he wasn't looking.

But I saw it.

She was growing impatient. Her mask was slipping.