Adrian's voice in the hallway awakened me up. It was harsh and aggressive, and he was talking quickly in Italian to someone on the phone.  The time was 6:47 AM. 

"No, absolutely not. I don't care what the news says...  Roberto, take care of it.  That's what I pay you for."

I put my ear to the door and heard bits and pieces of the conversation: "...scandal... family reputation... damage control..."

The call ended with what sounded like the phone being slammed down hard enough to shake the walls.

As I put on trousers and a sweater, my hands shook because the fabric was scratchy on my skin, which still felt too sensitive and exposed.  I snuck down the stairs like a thief in my own home...or what was meant to be my home. Each step made me grimace at the thought of a squeak. 

There was light coming in from under the study door, like spilt milk.  I thought Adrian would be there, but instead I found him in the kitchen, standing like a statue at the marble counter.  A cup of coffee sat next to him, untouched, with steam rising in slow spirals. A newspaper lay stretched out like an accusation. 

When I walked in, he looked up, and the sight of him hit me like a punch.  It was clear that he hadn't slept because his shirt was wrinkled and hanging open at the collar, and his dark hair was sticking up in strange ways, as if he had been raking his fingers through it all night.  The bags under his eyes were so dark that they looked like bruises. 

"There's coffee," he murmured in a scratchy voice, like sandpaper, and then he went back to reading as if I weren't there. 

I poured myself a cup, but my hands shook so much that the pottery clinked against the counter even though I tried to be quiet.  It was so tense around him that I could hardly breathe.  It felt like a weight on my chest, and every breath I took was a conscious effort.

"What did the news say?"  He turned the newspaper over so I could see the headline: "MORETTI HEIR MARRIES AGAIN AFTER BRIDE FLEES." 

I felt sick to my stomach.  There was a picture of us from yesterday, with me in Isabella's outfit and him looking like he was at a funeral.  Adrian replied,

"They're calling it a 'swift romantic development,'" and his voice was full of sarcasm. "We've been secretly in love for months, so it seems." 

I quickly read the piece, my face flaming.  The reporter turned our quick wedding into a fairy tale, complete with testimonials from 'close family friends,' saying that I had always been 'the quiet sister who captured Adrian's heart.'

"Atleast they're not printing the truth," I answered quietly. 

"The truth?"  He laughed bitterly.  "The truth is that I'm a fool who got played by one sister and married the other out of desperation." 

"That's not," 

"Isn't it?"  He suddenly stood up, and his chair scraped against the floor.  "Elena, what did you think would happen? That I'd instantly fall for you because you're wearing her dress?"

The words hit me like a slap.  "I never thought..."

"Good.  Because this arrangement is purely practical.  You gain safety, and I get to save what's left of my good name.  Nothing else." 

He was about ready to go when his phone rang.  He looked at his phone screen, and his face got even darker. 

"Isabella." He said, answering  "How nice of you to call" 

I froze.  The speaker made my sister's voice seem tinny, but I could still hear her words,

"Adrian, I'm so sorry.  I heard about the wedding, and I..."

"You heard about it?"  He said in a deadly low voice.  "You heard that I married your sister less than a day after you left me?"

"I had to do what my heart told me to do..."

"Your heart?"  He was walking back and forth like an animal in a cage.  "What about the promises we made?  What about our vows?"

"I didn't mean to hurt you. I never meet it..." 

"But you did."  The genuine pain in his voice made my heart race.  "You ruined everything, Isabella. Everything we ever built together."

"Marco and I are getting married, and I'm calling to let you know.  In Las Vegas. Tonight."

It was so quiet after that that it was deafening.  Adrian's face became blank, but I could see that his knuckles were turning white around the phone.

"Congratulations," he finally said.  "I hope you two are very happy together." 

"Adrian..." 

He hung up. 

For a time, we both stood still like mannequins in a store window.  Then Adrian lost it all.  He threw the phone across the room with so much force that it hit the wall and broke into shards of plastic and metal that fell like shrapnel on the clean marble floor. 

"She's marrying him," he remarked in a voice that was too calm.  "Tonight." 

I wanted to go to him and offer some type of consolation, but the expression in his eyes made me pause.  He looked at the smashed phone as if it held the bits of his soul that had been broken. 

"I'm sorry," I said softly, but the words were empty and not enough. 

"Are you?"  He turned to look at me, and there was something menacing in his gaze that made my heart race.

"Are you really sorry, Elena? Or are you happy that she's finally gone?"

The accusation seemed like a slap in the face. 

"That's not fair." 

"Fair?"  He got closer, and without thinking, I backed up against the counter. The marble edge hurt my back.  "Nothing about this is fair.  I'm stuck married to her replacement while she runs off to Vegas with her lover"

"I am not her replacement."  The words were stronger than I felt, but they were accurate.  They had to be real. 

"No?"  His voice was low and threatening as he got even closer, close enough for me to smell his fragrance mingled with coffee and desperation.  "Then what are you, Elena?  What do you mean to me, exactly?"

The question hung between us like a loaded gun.  I could feel my heart pounding against my ribs so hard that I was sure he could hear it.  The fact was that I didn't know what he meant to me.  I wasn't truly his wife.  I wasn't Isabella.  I was just there.  A placeholder.  A consolation prize. 

"I'm..."  I started, but then I stopped because my throat was closing up completely.  "I'm trying to help." 

"Help?"  He laughed, but it sounded more like a broken, raw sob.  "You want to help?  Then leave.  The same way she did.  At least then I would know where to stand. 

The doorbell rang before I could answer, breaking the tension like a knife.  Adrian's face changed, and the sorrow was hidden under a facade of calmness. 

"That'll be Maria," he muttered, making quick, agitated moves to adjust his shirt.  "The housekeeper. Don't mention that your sister called to announce her second wedding."

He left me alone in the kitchen with the broken phone and the terrible taste of his words on my lips like poison.  Maria showed in a few minutes later. She was a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and hair that was pulled back into a tidy bun.  She looked at the broken phone, the newspaper on the counter, and my face and appeared to get everything without saying a word. 

"Rough morning?"  She asked in a soft voice that made me feel warm inside. It has been lacking from this place since I got here. 

I nodded, not trusting my voice to stay steady.  The way she spoke to me with kindness almost made me cry.  She put a soft touch on my shoulder, and I had to bite my lip to keep from crying.  "Give him some time, dear.  People who are hurt say cruel things."

But as I knelt down to pick up the broken pieces of the phone, each one reflecting little bits of morning light, I wondered if time would heal anything at all, or if I was destined to spend the rest of my life living in the shadow of a ghost.