Chapter 2
1662words
Her colleague from obstetrics handed her the test results with a smile. "Dr. Wilson, congratulations! Four weeks along, and the indicators look excellent!"
Holding the lightweight paper between her fingertips, Claire felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds. A surge of joy, so intense it nearly made her dizzy, rushed to her head, causing her eyes to grow warm with emotion. She immediately wanted to call Lucas, eager to hear his voice when he learned the news—would he be surprised? Or perhaps... would there be a trace of joy?
But she restrained herself, wanting to tell him in person at a special moment. Perhaps this child could become the catalyst to break through that subtle barrier between them?
She couldn't help imagining what Lucas, with his typically cold and rigid demeanor, would look like holding a soft, tender baby. The shadow that had formed in her heart after his phone call last night seemed partially dispelled by this tremendous anticipation.
However, fate always seems to bare its cruel fangs just when hope burns brightest!
That night, Lucas had an important business engagement. On the phone, he spoke hurriedly, telling her to rest. Inexplicably drawn, Claire walked to the upscale club he frequently visited. The early summer night breeze carried a warm, intoxicating feeling, yet from a distance, she spotted that familiar figure.
Lucas stood in the dazzling lights at the club entrance, not alone. Before him was an elegantly dressed middle-aged woman with an extraordinary demeanor. The woman gently patted the back of his hand, her eyes reddened, seemingly saying something. The distance was too great for Claire to hear clearly, but Lucas's slightly bowed profile revealed a patient docility she had never seen in him before.
The wind intermittently carried fragments: "...Lucas...if Yuqing were still here..."
"Yuqing"?
This name pierced Claire's eardrum like an ice needle, catching her off guard and freezing her in place.
Lucas's back appeared unusually stiff as he consoled in a low voice: "Auntie, it's all in the past now."
Auntie? Yuqing? In the past?
These simple words instantly pieced together a vague yet unsettling picture in her mind.
She stood frozen, watching as the lady was driven away, watching as Lucas remained standing there for a moment before turning toward his own vehicle. From beginning to end, he never noticed her in the shadows of the trees not far away.
That night, Claire couldn't sleep. The name "Yuqing" circled in her mind like a curse.
She tried to analyze it rationally—perhaps a relative who had passed away young? But the lady's grief and Lucas's unusually gentle demeanor suggested something far more significant.
A few days later, as if fate deliberately tore open a wound, the bloody truth presented itself before her.
Lucas had to go on a two-day business trip for urgent matters. Before leaving, he instructed her that there was an encrypted document on his study desk, and if his assistant came to pick it up in the afternoon, she should help hand it over. Claire went to his spacious, quiet villa, finding the document in the study. As she turned around, her elbow accidentally knocked over a heavy copy of "Remembrance of Things Past" from the bookshelf.
The book fell to the floor with a thud. As she bent to retrieve it, a small, antique bronze key slid out from between the pages.
Both her professional curiosity and an ominous premonition seized her simultaneously. She recognized that drawer—the bottom one in the study desk—which had always been locked. She'd never thought to investigate; Lucas was a man with extremely strong boundaries, and she respected his privacy.
But at this moment, holding that cold key and thinking of the name "Yuqing," a powerful impulse drove her. Her hesitation lasted only an instant before she, almost trembling, inserted the key into the lock.
The soft click sounded particularly jarring in the silent study.
There were no documents in the drawer, no business secrets. Only a few old diaries neatly arranged, a stack of photos tied with ribbon, and a pink silk scarf that had somewhat faded.
She picked up the top diary and opened the title page. In elegant handwriting was written a name: Rachel Morgan.
Rachel Morgan!
The same surname as hers!
Her heart skipped a beat as she picked up the stack of photos with cold fingertips. The girl in the photos was youthful and vibrant, smiling like a blooming flower. And her features... her features were seventy percent similar to her own! Especially the shape of those eyes, and the shallow dimples at the corners of her mouth when she smiled. Even the profile of her face looked as if it had been carved from the same mold.
Claire flipped through the photos one by one, her breathing becoming increasingly rapid. There were individual photos of the girl, and pictures of her with a younger Lucas. In the photos, Lucas's gaze held a brightness and tenderness she had never seen before, carrying the intensity of youth. They were holding hands, embracing, with smiles so dazzling they hurt to look at.
Finally, her gaze fixed on a photo of two people together. Lucas embraced the girl called Rachel Morgan from behind, his chin resting on top of her head. The girl looked back at him, her eyes full of dependence and happiness. On the back of the photo was Lucas's familiar yet sharp handwriting, the ink seemingly embedded deeply into the photo paper from the pressure:
"Rachel, after three years, I've finally found your shadow. I will keep her forever."
Shadow... keep her...
Each word was like a red-hot iron, searing into her heart.
With a boom in her head, Claire felt the world spinning, as if all the blood in her body instantly froze, then immediately boiled.
She staggered back a step, collapsed onto the floor, her back hitting the cold bookcase, yet she felt no pain at all.
So that's how it is!
All those things she once thought were "attentiveness"—how he always liked to kiss her on the cheek, saying she looked most beautiful when quiet; the first perfume he gave her, a cold white floral scent that she didn't particularly like, yet he insisted suited her perfectly; those moments when he looked at her, his gaze seeming to pass through her as if seeing someone else; and that abstract painting in his study that always seemed out of place with his style—now she realized that its colors and composition were strikingly similar to the dress in one of Rachel Morgan's photos...
Everything made sense now...
She wasn't Claire Wilson; she was merely Rachel Morgan's substitute! A pathetically crafted shadow, carefully selected to fill the void in his heart! When he said he wanted to "keep her forever," he meant keeping this "shadow," not her, Claire Wilson herself!
Cold despair washed over her like a tide. She caressed her still-flat abdomen, where a new life was growing—a life founded on lies and substitution.
A tremendous wave of nausea surged up her throat again, this time not from morning sickness, but from this complete deception and the collapse of her self-perception.
She sat on the cold floor for who knows how long. Only when the sky outside began to lighten did she slowly stand up, carefully restoring everything to its original state, including the key, which she tucked back into the copy of "Remembrance of Things Past."
Then, she picked up her bag, straightened her spine, and walked out of this magnificent cage. The tear stains on her face had long dried, leaving only an almost numb calmness.
Her professional training as a psychologist allowed her to maintain outward composure even in her most devastating moment.
Only a certain part deep inside her heart had completely shattered, and was quickly beginning to reassemble itself, becoming cold and hard.
On the evening when Lucas returned from his business trip, Claire even personally cooked several of his favorite dishes. At the dinner table, the atmosphere seemed normal.
Halfway through the meal, Claire put down her chopsticks, raised her head, and looked calmly at the man across from her.
"Lucas," her voice was soft, yet carried an unmistakable seriousness, "do you love me?"
Lucas was just picking up some food with his chopsticks. Hearing this, he paused, looked up, his brows habitually furrowed with a trace of displeasure at being disturbed. "Why are you suddenly asking this?"
He avoided answering.
Claire's heart felt like it was being tightly gripped by an invisible hand, but her face still showed no expression. She simply pressed on: "I just want to know if you love me, Claire Wilson as a person, or..." she paused, and then said clearly, word by word, "or is it this face of mine, which resembles Rachel Morgan's?"
*Clang!*
Lucas's chopsticks fell onto the bone china plate with a jarring clatter. His expression suddenly turned extremely ugly, his eyes flashing with momentary panic at being exposed, but quickly replaced by anger.
He slammed down his bowl, his tone cold as iron. "Claire Wilson! What nonsense are you talking about? Who told you that? Don't make unreasonable scenes!"
Unreasonable scenes...
Claire looked at the clear anger in his eyes, but saw no trace of the anxiety of being misunderstood, nor the denial she had perhaps subconsciously still hoped for.
She suddenly began to laugh softly, her laughter filled with endless desolation and mockery.
"Fine, I understand now!" She didn't press further, nor did she look into his eyes again, just picked up her chopsticks and silently continued eating.
Her training as a psychologist told her that when someone uses anger to cover up the truth, further questioning becomes meaningless. Some wounds, when torn open, only become more bloody and raw.
And she had already figured out the only way out for herself and the child in her womb.
