Page 21 of Porcelain Vows

Get up, Stella.

It’s not like he’s coming back anytime soon.

Reluctantly, I swing my legs from the mattress, inhaling one last breath of the scent of us on the sheets. The morning airfeels cool against my bare skin as I slip from the bed. I find a silk robe hanging in the closet—was it mine before?— and wrap it around my swollen belly. The fabric whispers against my skin, luxurious and unfamiliar yet somehow right.

I pad into the hallway, my bare feet alternating between the cool marble of the corridor and the plush warmth of scattered rugs. Each sensation pulls me more firmly into the present moment. The manor stretches before me, grand and imposing, filled with doorways that might lead to answers.

Or to more questions.

My fingertips trail along textured wallpaper, feeling the subtle raised patterns beneath my skin. Each door I pass becomes a potential portal to my past. I hesitate before turning each knob, heart quickening with both hope and apprehension. What might I discover? What piece of myself might be waiting on the other side?

Most rooms reveal nothing but more luxury— guest bedrooms with untouched linens, sitting rooms with perfectly arranged furniture, a library with books whose titles blur before my eyes. Nothing triggers recognition, nothing clicks into place. It’s like walking through a museum dedicated to someone else’s life.

Until I reach what appears to be a study.

Hisstudy. There’s no doubt in my mind of it.

Early morning light streams through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that dance in the golden beams. The room smells of leather and paper, with undertones of the same sandalwood that clings to Aleksei.

A huge walnut desk dominates the room, its contents carefully ordered in rows. Pens and notepads neatly lined up, a laptop aligned precisely with the edge of the table. I run a fingertip over the smooth surface as I look around the room. Bookshelves and filing cabinets take up practically all of the available wall space.

Framed photos take up the remainder: Aleksei with a group of similarly grim-faced men who appear to be business associates; Aleksei with an older version of himself, who must be the brother he mentioned; Aleksei with a woman who could only be his twin— beautiful in a cold, almost brutal way. And finally, Aleksei holding the hand of a small boy who seems to be awkwardly seated beside him. I frown at the picture for a moment, taking in the same determined jaw and intense eyes that they share.

Could it be…?

I shake my head, turning back to the room and taking in the rest of it. There’s a dark leather Chesterfield sofa in a spacious sitting area in the center of the room. A coffee table in front of it holds piles of business magazines—Forbes,Times, theWall Street Journal. A newspaper lies carefully folded on a mahogany side table beside the sofa, opened to a feature article as if deliberately kept that way. Something about the headline catches my eye.

“Heartfelt Evening: Charity Gala Raises Record-Breaking Funds for Sick Children.”

I move closer, drawn by an inexplicable pull. My heart nearly stops when I see the photograph beneath the headline. It’s me— undeniably me— in an elegant outfit that hugs every curve. I look confident, glamorous, my arm linked through Aleksei’s as camera flashes illuminate our faces.

The date on the publication is months ago. Meaning he must have kept this all this time? Why? To remember this moment? Perhaps it was special to us.

My fingers tremble as they trace the outline of my image. A memory flickers— the weight of glittering earrings, the taste of expensive champagne, Aleksei’s possessive hand at the small of my back as we pose for photographers. Then it’s gone almost as quickly as it emerged.

“Dammit,” I whisper, frustration knotting my shoulders. So close. I was so close to grasping something real.

I hover beside the table, the newspaper still clutched in my hands. My jaw clenches as I stare at the photo, willing it to unlock more memories. Nothing comes. Just that brief flash, that tantalizing glimpse into a life I can’t remember living.

Carefully setting the newspaper back where I found it, I leave the study and return to the hallway, making my way back to my bedroom in the opposite wing. It doesn’t feel like home to me; I’d rather be back inhisbedroom, inhisbed. But somehow, I’m not sure if I should go back there now. Instead, I wander around my room, exploring it more closely than I did on arrival.

Like everything else, it doesn’t feel familiar. The clothing in the dressing room tells of a woman with a taste for casual clothing, nothing like the glamorous evening wear in the paper. Of course, most of it is maternity garb, thanks to my condition. All the best brands, perfectly matched. There’s a yoga mat rolled in one corner and an entire section of exercise clothing. Still, nothing feels like something I would have picked out for myself.

A drawer in the closet is slightly ajar. Without thinking, I pull it open, revealing a simple phone tucked inside among the items of lingerie. It’s not the latest model— nothing like thesleek smartphone Aleksei carries. This looks older, more basic. Curious, I turn it on.

The screen illuminates, showing several missed calls from someone named “Hannah.” The name resonates somewhere deep inside me, stirring something that feels like recognition. Hannah. Red curls. Infectious laughter. Fierce loyalty. The images come in disconnected flashes, gone before I can fully grasp them.

My thumb hovers over the callback button, heart racing. Who is Hannah to me? A friend? Family? Someone who might have answers?

Should I call her?

What would I even say?

I hesitate, then power down the phone and slip it into my robe pocket. Something tells me to keep this discovery to myself— at least for now. It feels strange to have a secret from Aleksei when he’s the only solid connection I have in this fog-filled existence, but the impulse is too strong to ignore.

Fatigue suddenly washes over me, my body reminding me of its limits. Pregnancy and recovery demand rest, regardless of my mental turmoil. I make my way back to my bedroom and lie down on the bed, my body sinking gratefully into the mattress. The simple act of becoming horizontal brings immediate relief to my aching back. I place both hands on my swollen belly, feeling the taut skin beneath my palms.

Then she moves.

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