Chapter 4 - THE PAINTING BEHIND THE WALL
The painting was hidden behind a loose wooden panel in the conservatory.
I found it by accident.
A small canvas.
Oil on linen.
A woman standing beside a lake.
Her face turned away.
The brushwork was delicate.
Beautiful.
And unmistakably old.
I carried it into the library.
Teresa saw it.
Her face went pale.
“Where did you find that?”
I frowned.
“In the conservatory.”
She swallowed.
“Oh, dear.”
Before I could ask, Elio entered.
He stopped when he saw the painting.
His expression changed completely.
“Where did you get that?”
His voice was sharp.
I stepped back.
“It was behind a panel.”
Elio crossed the room.
“Put it down.”
I stared.
“Elio—”
“Now.”
I placed the painting on the table.
He looked at it.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he turned away.
“Leave it.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Leave it here.”
His voice was cold.
Final.
Something inside me snapped.
“No.”
Elio turned.
“What?”
I stepped closer.
“You don't get to speak to me like that.”
His jaw tightened.
“Ginevra.”
“No.”
My voice shook.
“I found a painting. I didn't steal state secrets.”
Elio closed his eyes.
For a moment, I thought he might shout.
Instead, he exhaled.
“It belonged to my mother.”
I froze.
He looked at the canvas.
“She painted it.”
My anger softened.
“Oh.”
Elio stared at the woman in the painting.
“She died when I was sixteen.”
I nodded.
“Teresa told me.”
He swallowed.
“She was the only person in this house who ever made it feel like a home.”
For the first time, I saw something vulnerable in his face.
Grief.
Old.
Deep.
Unhealed.
I looked at the painting.
“It's beautiful.”
Elio said nothing.
I continued.
“She had talent.”
His eyes filled slightly.
“Yes.”
I hesitated.
“Why was it hidden?”
He looked away.
“My father couldn't bear to see her work.”
I swallowed.
Elio touched the edge of the frame.
Then whispered:
“Neither could I.”
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then I said:
“Maybe it deserves to be seen.”
Elio looked at me.
I smiled gently.
“Not because the pain is gone.”
I glanced at the painting.
“But because she mattered.”
Elio stared at me.
Then slowly nodded.
The next morning, the painting hung in the conservatory.
In the sunlight.
Where it belonged.
And when I passed the room, I saw Elio standing in front of it.
Alone.
May you like
His head bowed.
For the first time, I understood that the ruthless man I'd married had once been a grieving boy.
