Chapter 81: Snoop
Blanche slipped behind the house, fully aware that the door leading to the garden was never locked.
She was right: once again today, the panel gave way without resistance.
The handle turned softly beneath her fingers before the door opened with that silent, fluid motion typical of perfectly maintained places. Not the slightest creak. Not the faintest vibration. As if the place itself refused to disturb the almost sacred calm reigning behind the glass wall.
Without a sound, she pushed open the pool's glass doors.
Immediately, a wave of humid heat enveloped her.
Warm air brushed against her skin, still cool from the outside, thick with steam and that faint scent of clean water mixed with sun-heated stone. The temperature shift made her shiver slightly as she stepped into the vast, softly lit room.
The pool looked unreal at this hour.
Built in a lavish Roman style, it stretched through the center of the room like a liquid mirror surrounded by gleaming white marble. The columns supporting the glass roof reflected on the water's surface in golden ripples, giving the impression of an ancient forgotten palace sleeping deep within the house.
The marble caught the light with an almost blinding purity in places.
Every slab seemed perfectly polished, veined with silvery patterns that shimmered beneath the wall lights and the first traces of dawn. Even the moisture resting on the stone looked like a dusting of tiny crystals.
She slowly walked along the edge of the basin.
Beneath her steps, the still-warm floor sent a pleasant heat through the fabric of her clothes. The humid mist clung to her skin, brushing her neck, her arms, her face in a damp, almost languid caress. Droplets already slid down the immense glass panels, slightly blurring the outside world still caught between night and early dawn.
The water always seemed warm here, no matter the hour.
As if the pool existed outside the normal rules of the world.
Its surface faintly steamed in the absolute silence of the room, broken only by the soft, lazy ripples dying against the marble edges. At times, the light fractured across the water in shifting shards that danced along the columns and glass ceiling.
Blanche unconsciously slowed her pace.
There was something strangely soothing here.
Something almost hypnotic.
As if the pool had been designed not only for luxury... but also to let exhausted people come and set down, for a few moments, the weight of the world.
Now she understood why.
She entered the living room, then went straight upstairs.
In front of Kiyan's closed bedroom door, she hesitated for only a second before opening it.
The interior immediately swallowed her: a true One Thousand and One Nights palace, draped in veils and colorful fabrics, lit by oil lamps and candles.
As soon as she crossed the threshold, the outside world seemed to vanish behind her.
Lit as if by magic the moment she stepped in, everything had turned on.
The light inside was different—warmer, more alive. Hundreds of candles scattered throughout the room flickered softly with every faint draft, casting golden, amber shadows across the walls. Hanging oil lamps diffused a muted glow that wrapped every corner in an almost unreal softness.
Light veils cascaded from the ceiling in translucent waves, drifting slowly through the air like silk clouds trapped in silence. The colorful drapes covering the walls blended deep shades of crimson, aged gold, midnight blue, and dark emerald into a lush harmony that made the space feel immediately intoxicating.
The air itself seemed saturated with spices and incense.
A delicate scent of burning wood, dried flowers, and oriental resins lingered—soft, never overwhelming. Each breath felt like stepping a little deeper into an ancient dream.
Riveted mirrors and carved drawers reflected the flames in shifting glints, multiplying the light across the room. Some mirrors, framed in finely worked copper, were so old their glass had slightly warped, giving the reflections an almost supernatural depth.
The furniture itself was a work of art.
Carved drawers overflowed with delicate patterns: endless arabesques, stylized flowers, intricate geometric lines running along the dark, polished wood. Every handle looked hand-forged. Every detail silently spoke of years of wealth, patience, and craftsmanship.
Even the thick carpets softened her steps into near silence.
Blanche slowed instinctively, absorbed by the atmosphere.
Everything here seemed designed to seduce the senses: the warmth of the light, the richness of the fabrics, the soft murmur of flames, the shifting reflections in the mirrors... Nothing was modern, yet the place radiated a timeless luxury far more overwhelming than any contemporary villa.
As if the room had not been decorated.
But patiently built into a living fantasy.
She set her bag down and sat on the bed, wrapped in her owner's scent. She found herself inhaling the air, unable to resist its intoxicating trace. She picked up a photo frame: Eva and her, as children, inseparable as they still were. One glowing with joy, the other carrying that familiar hint of mystery.
She followed Alacazar's indications and found a second photograph that made her heart falter.
On it, a car—the same one she remembered being hit by—and, sitting on the hood, a couple holding hands, smiling at the camera. Recognizing Kiyan was easy, even in black and white. Recognizing herself, however... a long floral dress, an engagement ring, a wedding band, hair pinned up revealing the earring he had given her that very morning.
They were beautiful. And so happy.
She tilted the frame slightly—and a handwritten note slipped into view, scrawled in black ink:
To my soulmate, my husband, who gave me such a beautiful car.
I loved you, I love you, and I will love you forever.
B.
September 30th, 2005.
The car she had been hit by. Hers. But who owned it now? A disturbing thought crossed her mind, quickly pushed away: Kiyan would never have willingly risked his life or his daughter's.
But he must know who did—hence the erased footage.
She carefully replaced the photo, put the duplicate in front of it, and set the frame back exactly as it had been, thanks to her photographic memory. While smoothing the sheets, she noticed a pillow—hers.
Right in the middle of Kiyan's bed.
Flushed pink, she put it back where it belonged.
Why on earth did he have her pillow?
Her gaze drifted to another photo on the dresser: a small boy with a mischievous smile. Argy, without a doubt.
Softened, she left the room, closed the door, and went down to the office.
The mirror was waiting. Without looking back, she stepped through it.