Chapter 10 - The Ghost of the Past
Mrs. Marchetti looked remarkably like her daughter—impeccably tailored, her silver-streaked dark hair swept back into a tight chignon, wearing a charcoal wool coat that looked as though it had never encountered a speck of dust or a moment of human doubt.
She was standing by the tall arched window of the library, looking out at the autumn gardens where Maren and Nana Bello were currently collecting fallen pinecones.
When I entered the room, she didn't turn around immediately.
"You've changed the garden," she said, her voice dry, cultured, and devoid of warmth.
"I've let it grow," I replied, stopping a few feet away. "What brings you here, Mrs. Marchetti? I assume Vivienne didn't send you to discuss a amicable settlement."
She turned, her dark eyes—so chillingly similar to the ones that had flashed with fury in this very house months ago—scanning my face with clinical detachment.
"Vivienne is in Zurich," she stated flatly. "She is throwing herself into her gallery work. She hasn't left her apartment in three weeks, except to meet with her legal team."
"That sounds like her choice."
"She believes you humiliated her," Mrs. Marchetti said, stepping closer. "She believes a three-year-old child outmaneuvered her in a house she spent months curating."
"Maren didn't outmaneuver anyone," I answered, my voice hardening. "She simply revealed what was already broken. If you're here to plead her case or threaten legal action, you're wasting your time. The agreements are signed, the press releases are dead, and my daughter's life is no longer open for theatrical performance."
Mrs. Marchetti studied me for a long moment, a strange, complicated shadow crossing her severe features. For a fraction of a second, the armor slipped, revealing something exhausted beneath the polished exterior.
"I didn't come to threaten you, Julian," she murmured, looking back toward the window where Maren was now holding up a pinecone to show Nana Bello. "I came to see for myself if the rumors were true. Vivienne always lived her life behind glass. She thought if everything looked perfect on the surface, nothing could touch her inside."
She pulled a small, heavy velvet box from her handbag and placed it gently on the edge of the mahogany desk between us.
"What is this?" I asked.
"It was Vivienne's grandmother's," she said quietly, drawing her coat tighter around her shoulders. "A family heirloom she intended to wear at the wedding. She left it behind in the master suite. I told her I would return it to you, or dispose of it. But looking at this house now... I think you should give it to your daughter when she grows up. Not as a symbol of high society, but as a reminder of what happens when a home stops pretending."
Before I could answer, Mrs. Marchetti turned toward the door, walking with precise, measured steps down the hallway.
May you like
I stood alone in the quiet library, staring at the velvet box. When I finally opened it, I found a simple, antique silver locket, tarnished slightly around the edges with real, unpolished age.
I closed the lid, picked it up, and carried it upstairs to Maren's room, locking it away in her memory box—a place where real history was allowed to live.
