Chapter 4 Secrets in the Keepsakes

# Chapter 4: Secrets in the Keepsakes

A month after discovering the cameras, I'd developed a new routine. Each morning, I'd smile at the hidden lenses I now knew were there, sometimes even waving while making my coffee. I'd begun wearing what I wanted—comfortable clothes instead of the tailored outfits Robert preferred. I ate dessert openly, left books sprawled on tables instead of neatly shelved, and played music Robert would have deemed "common."

It was a small rebellion, but it was mine.

Jake and I had reached an uneasy truce. He'd shown me how to identify which rooms had cameras (most public areas) and which didn't (bedrooms and bathrooms, thankfully). He'd even helped me find blind spots in the monitored rooms where I could have moments of genuine privacy.

"You could just move out," he pointed out one evening as we sat in the garden, one of the few outdoor spaces without surveillance.

"And go where?" I asked. "Robert controlled our finances. Everything was in his name or jointly held with restrictions. His lawyer is still untangling it all."

Jake frowned. "That sounds..."

"Controlling?" I supplied. "Yes, well, that was Robert's specialty, wasn't it?"

The bitterness in my voice surprised even me. In the weeks since his death, my grief had evolved into something more complex—a mixture of loss, anger, and slowly dawning liberation.

"You know," Jake said carefully, "his study hasn't been touched since the accident. Mother can't bear to go in there, and Father avoids it. Maybe there's information about your finances in his papers."

The idea of entering Robert's inner sanctum made my stomach clench. It had been his private domain, the one room in the house where even I had needed explicit permission to enter.

"Will you come with me?" I asked.

Jake nodded. "Of course."

That night, after his parents had gone to bed, Jake met me outside Robert's study. The heavy oak door seemed to resist as he pushed it open, as if the room itself wanted to keep its secrets.

Inside, everything was exactly as Robert had left it. His leather chair still bore the impression of his body, his fountain pen lay uncapped beside a half-finished letter, and his collection of first-edition novels stood in perfect alphabetical order on the shelves. The air smelled of his sandalwood cologne and the lemon polish used on the furniture.

"Where should we start?" I whispered, though there was no need for quiet.

Jake moved to the desk. "Financial records would likely be in his computer or filing cabinet."

As he began searching through the drawers, I wandered around the perimeter of the room, taking in details I'd never had the chance to study before. Robert's diplomas and awards covered one wall, testament to his academic and professional achievements. Another wall featured photographs—mostly of Robert receiving various honors, shaking hands with important people, or posed with his parents at society events.

I was notably absent from this gallery, despite our three-year relationship. There was only one photo of us together, taken at our engagement party. I stood slightly behind Robert, smiling the perfect smile he'd taught me, wearing the perfect dress he'd selected, my hand on his arm in the perfect pose we'd practiced.

"Emma," Jake called softly. "I found something."

He was holding a leather-bound journal, the kind Robert used for his personal reflections. Unlike his business planners with their precise notations and schedules, these journals contained his private thoughts—thoughts he'd never shared with me.

"Should we be reading that?" I asked, even as I moved closer.

"Probably not," Jake admitted. "But don't you want to know who he really was?"

The question hung in the air between us. Did I? After discovering the cameras, the training manual, the financial control—how many more revelations could I bear?

Jake opened the journal to a page marked with a silk ribbon. "This entry is from about six months ago. Around the time you got engaged."

He handed it to me, and I steeled myself before looking down at the familiar handwriting:

_"Dinner with E's parents tonight. Her mother is common but not offensive. Father still absent—probably for the best given his background. E was perfect as always, though she laughed too loudly at one point. Must remind her about proper volume. She's coming along well, though sometimes I catch glimpses of resistance that concern me. She still doesn't understand how fortunate she is to have been chosen for this role. Mother says it's natural, that all women need guidance to rise above their station. Father agrees E has potential, with proper molding. She's not Luna, of course—no one could be—but she has the right look, the right background (with some strategic omissions), and most importantly, the right malleability. Luna would be impossible to replace, but E is the closest substitute I could find. When she wears her hair up, in certain lights, the resemblance is almost uncanny..."_

The words blurred as tears filled my eyes. Substitute. Malleability. The right look. I felt physically ill, as if Robert had reached from beyond the grave to slap me across the face.

"Who is Luna?" I asked, my voice barely audible.

Jake took the journal back, his expression grim. "His college girlfriend. They were together for three years."

"He never mentioned her." In fact, Robert had always given me the impression that his romantic history was sparse and insignificant—a few brief relationships that never approached the seriousness of ours.

"He wouldn't have," Jake said. "It ended badly."

"What happened to her?"

Jake hesitated. "She died. Car accident during their senior year."

The revelation struck me like a physical blow. "She died? And he never told me? We were together for three years, engaged to be married, and he never once mentioned that his serious girlfriend had died?"

"Robert compartmentalized his life," Jake said, as if that explained everything. "After Luna died, he shut down completely. Threw himself into his studies, then his career. He didn't date anyone seriously until you."

A terrible suspicion was forming in my mind. "Jake, do I look like her?"

His silence was answer enough.

"Show me," I demanded. "There must be photos."

Jake sighed and pulled out his phone. After a moment of scrolling through what must have been very old files, he handed it to me.

The woman on the screen was beautiful, with delicate features and a serene smile. Her hair was dark like mine, her build similar. But the resemblance ended there. Where my eyes were green, hers were deep brown. Her skin was several shades darker than mine, her face more heart-shaped than oval.

"I don't understand," I said, looking up at Jake in confusion. "We don't look alike at all."

Jake took the phone back, staring at the image with a complex expression. "Not to most people, no. But to Robert..." He trailed off, searching for words. "Luna represented something to him—perfection, perhaps, or the life he'd planned and lost. He spent years looking for someone who could fit into that vision."

"And I was malleable enough to be shaped into her replacement," I finished bitterly.

"I tried to warn you," Jake said softly. "When you first started dating him. I told you he had an agenda."

I remembered that conversation—a tense dinner where Jake had too much to drink and made cryptic comments about Robert's "pattern" with women. Robert had dismissed it as jealousy, and I'd believed him.

"Why didn't you just tell me about Luna?" I asked.

"Would you have believed me over him?" Jake countered. "Besides, I wanted to be wrong. I wanted him to genuinely love you for who you are."

The journal still lay open on the desk. I flipped through more pages, each entry revealing more of Robert's calculated approach to our relationship. He documented my "progress" like a scientist tracking an experiment—noting when I successfully adopted his preferences, expressing disappointment when I showed independence.

"I can't read any more," I said finally, closing the journal with shaking hands.

Jake nodded, taking it from me and moving toward the fireplace. "You don't need to. None of this matters now."

"What are you doing?" I asked as he knelt by the hearth.

"What should have been done long ago." He struck a match and touched it to the corner of the journal.

"Jake, no!" I lunged forward, but it was too late. The flame caught the paper, spreading quickly.

"It's evidence," I protested. "Proof of what he did."

"Proof of what?" Jake asked, watching the pages curl and blacken. "That my brother was damaged? That he manipulated you? What good does keeping this poison do?"

I had no answer. Part of me wanted to preserve Robert's words as validation of my growing resentment, proof that I wasn't imagining the control he'd exerted. Another part was relieved to see his cold assessments turning to ash.

As the journal burned, something fluttered from between its pages—a photograph that had been tucked inside. Jake reached for it instinctively, pulling it from the flames before it could be consumed.

I gasped when I saw it. Luna, smiling at the camera, her arm around a younger Robert. They looked happy, carefree in a way I'd never seen Robert in life. But what shocked me most was how different she was from me. In this clearer photo, Luna was stunning in a completely different way—tall and willowy where I was petite, with sharp, elegant features that contrasted with my softer face.

"I don't understand," I said again. "We look nothing alike."

Jake stared at the photo, his expression unreadable. "No," he agreed quietly. "You don't."

"Then why did he say I resembled her in his journal?"

Jake didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stood and moved to Robert's desk, pulling open the bottom drawer. From it, he retrieved a small box I'd never seen before.

"Because my brother lived in his own reality," he said, opening the box to reveal dozens of photographs. "These are all the women he dated between Luna and you."

I spread the photos across the desk, a chill running through me as patterns emerged. Though they varied in specific features, all the women shared certain qualities—all were petite with dark hair, all photographed in similar poses, often wearing similar styles that I recognized as those Robert had encouraged me to adopt.

"He was trying to recreate her," I whispered.

"Not her," Jake corrected, his voice tight with an emotion I couldn't identify. "His idea of her. The perfect, controllable version that existed only in his mind."

The fire was dying down, the journal now mostly ash. Jake gathered the photos and moved to add them to the flames.

"Wait," I said, grabbing his arm. "I need to understand this. All of it."

Our eyes met, and something passed between us—a current of shared pain, shared understanding.

"Some things are better left buried, Emma," he said softly.

"Like the cameras? Like the training manual? How many more of Robert's secrets are you protecting?"

The question hung between us, charged with accusation. Jake's jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he would walk away. Instead, he handed me the stack of photos.

"I'm not protecting him," he said. "I'm protecting you."

"From what?"

"From knowing that the man you were going to marry never saw you—not the real you. He saw a project, a replacement, a second chance to get right what went wrong with Luna."

The brutal honesty of his words knocked the breath from me. I sank into Robert's chair, the photos scattered across my lap.

"Why did you stay?" I asked suddenly. "All these weeks since the funeral. Why did you stay here, watching me discover all this, piece by piece?"

Jake turned away, staring into the dying embers of the fire. "Because someone needed to be here when the truth came out. Someone who sees you, Emma. The real you."

The implication in his words made my heart race. Before I could respond, a sound at the door made us both turn. Mrs. Mitchell stood in the doorway, her silk robe wrapped tightly around her thin frame, her face a mask of shock.

"What are you doing in here?" she demanded, her voice breaking. "This is Robert's private space."

Jake moved smoothly, stepping between his mother and the evidence of our intrusion. "Mother, it's late. You should be resting."

"Don't patronize me," she snapped, pushing past him to see the dying fire, the scattered photos, the open drawers. "What have you done? What have you told her?"

I stood, gathering the photos into a neat stack. "He told me the truth, Mrs. Mitchell. About Luna. About why Robert chose me."

The older woman's face crumpled, not with anger but with a deep, exhausted sadness. "You don't understand. My son loved you."

"He loved who he thought he could make me become," I corrected gently.

Mrs. Mitchell shook her head, tears gathering in her eyes. "No, no. It wasn't like that. Robert had his ways, yes, but he wanted the best for you. For both of you."

Jake placed a hand on his mother's shoulder. "It's time to let this go. All of it."

She shrugged him off, her gaze hardening as she looked from him to me and back again. "I see what's happening here. Barely a month, and already you're moving in, Jacob. Your brother isn't even cold in his grave."

"Mother," Jake warned, his voice low.

"Always jealous," she continued, her grief twisting into something ugly. "Always wanting what your brother had. Even as children. And now this—"

"Enough!" Jake's voice cracked like a whip. "Emma deserved to know the truth."

Mrs. Mitchell drew herself up, suddenly every inch the formidable society matron I'd always known her to be. "The truth? You want the truth, Emma? The truth is that my son chose you because you were nothing like Luna. Nothing. She destroyed him, betrayed him in the worst possible way. He chose you because you were safe, reliable, malleable—yes, malleable. Because he never wanted to feel that kind of pain again."

With those parting words, she turned and swept from the room, leaving a stunned silence in her wake.

I looked at Jake, whose face had gone pale. "What did she mean? How did Luna betray him?"

Jake ran a hand through his hair, his expression tortured. "It's complicated, Emma."

"Stop protecting me," I said firmly. "I need to know."

He hesitated, then reached for the box of photos again. From the very bottom, he pulled out one final picture—so well hidden I hadn't noticed it before. He handed it to me without a word.

The photograph showed a much younger Jake, his arm around Luna's waist, both of them laughing at something off-camera. They looked intimate, comfortable with each other in a way that suggested more than casual friendship.

Understanding dawned slowly, then all at once. "You and Luna..."

"Were together," Jake finished, his voice hollow. "Before she and Robert ever met. We dated in high school, stayed together when we both went to the same college. Robert knew her as my girlfriend for almost a year before..."

"Before what?" I prompted when he trailed off.

"Before she chose him instead." The admission seemed to cost him something vital. "She broke up with me and started dating Robert a week later. It nearly destroyed our relationship as brothers. But then she died, and everything changed. Robert was devastated, and my anger seemed petty in comparison."

The revelation rewrote everything I thought I knew about the Mitchell brothers, about my relationship with Robert, about the strange tension that had always existed between them.

"So when Robert started dating me..."

"I was concerned," Jake said carefully. "I saw patterns, behaviors that reminded me of how he was with Luna. Controlling, possessive, reshaping her to fit his image of the perfect partner."

"And you didn't think this was information I might have needed?" I couldn't keep the hurt from my voice.

"By the time I realized how serious it was, you were already engaged. You seemed happy, or at least content. I told myself it wasn't my place to interfere." His eyes met mine, filled with regret. "I was wrong."

I looked down at the photo of Jake and Luna, then at the ashes of Robert's journal in the fireplace. So many secrets, so many lies—by commission and omission—all swirling around me like smoke.

"I need some air," I said, moving toward the door.

Jake didn't try to stop me. As I reached the threshold, I heard him say softly, "Emma, I never meant to hurt you."

I paused but didn't turn around. "I know. That's the difference between you and Robert."