If you’re coming from Facebook, you’re probably curious to know what really happened to Maria and the mysterious girl in the portrait. Prepare yourself, because the truth is far more shocking, and painful, than you can imagine.
Maria took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of pine wax and a faint, antique fragrance that permeated every corner of Blackwood Mansion. She had only been working there for a week, in the imposing residence of Mr. Elias Fernandez, the most reserved and enigmatic real estate magnate in the city. Her life was a stark contrast to the opulence she now polished every day. In her small apartment, there had barely been room for her and her memories. Here, every room was larger than her entire home.
Her routine was always the same: clean, polish, try to be invisible. Avoid eye contact, make no noise, disappear into the shadows of other people’s wealth. That day it was her turn to clean the main study, a sanctuary of dark mahogany, leather-bound books, and works of art that seemed worth more than her entire life. A place full of treasures, but curiously, very few personal photographs.
As she wiped the pristine, solid mahogany desk with a soft cloth, her gaze fell upon an unassuming picture frame. It was almost hidden behind a stack of financial reports and a Tiffany lamp. It wasn’t large, just a faded silver frame containing the image of a small girl.
The girl was smiling, her light brown hair falling in waves over her shoulders, and her eyes… her eyes were an unmistakable emerald green. Those eyes seemed strangely familiar to him, like a distant echo of a dream or a nightmare.
At first, Maria tried to ignore it. She was probably the granddaughter of a business partner, the niece of a distant relative, or perhaps the daughter of a high-ranking employee whom Mr. Fernandez valued. It wasn’t her place to pry into other people’s lives, much less the millionaire’s. Her job was to clean, not to question.
But something in the curve of her smile, in that unruly lock of hair that fell across her forehead, and above all, in the intensity of those green eyes, compelled her to move closer. A pang of something she couldn’t name, a mixture of nostalgia and terror, tightened in her chest. Her hands, accustomed to the hardship of her work, began to tremble slightly. The microfiber cloth slipped through her fingers.
Her heart lurched, a dull, painful blow echoing in her ears. It couldn’t be. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, as if she could erase the image, or as if her own eyes were playing a cruel trick on her. She looked again, this time with an almost desperate intensity. Every feature, every detail, was etched into her memory.
There was no doubt. That little girl… those eyes… that small, straight nose… that shape of her chin… she was identical. She was the same little girl he had seen in hundreds of old photographs, the ones he kept carefully in a box under his bed. The same one he had loved with every fiber of his being, the one he had cradled, fed, and sung lullabies to every night.
The words caught in her throat, a dry, bitter knot that made it hard to breathe. The voice of her memory screamed a name, a name she had whispered in the darkness for years, a past she thought buried under tons of pain and resignation. Sofia. Sofia.
The feather duster she was still holding fell to the floor with a thud that seemed to echo in the opulent silence of the study. Cold sweat trickled down her back, soaking the fabric of her uniform. How was it possible? How could this little girl, whom she knew so well, whom she had given birth to almost ten years ago, now be in the house of such a powerful and mysterious man? Her Sofia. Could it be?
A wave of nausea washed over her. Her head spun. It was madness, a cruel coincidence, a trick of her own tormented mind. But the evidence, so clear and tangible in that portrait, refused to disappear. The girl in the painting smiled, oblivious to the abyss of confusion and terror opening up beneath Maria’s feet.
At that very moment, as her entire world crumbled in an instant, the studio door, which had been ajar, slowly creaked open. The shadow of a tall, burly figure fell across the polished parquet floor, obscuring the photograph of the little girl, as if fate itself wished to conceal the truth a little longer.
Maria looked up, her heart pounding like a wild drum in her chest. There, in the doorway, stood Mr. Elias Fernandez, his face impassive, his gray eyes fixed on her. There was no expression, only a calculated coldness that chilled her to the bone. Had he seen her? Had he seen her reaction?
Elias Fernandez, the owner of this immense fortune, the man who controlled properties and businesses throughout the city, gazed at her with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine. His presence filled the room, an aura of power and mystery that made her feel small and insignificant.
“Is there a problem, Miss Maria?” he asked in a deep, surprisingly calm voice, but with a nuance Maria couldn’t decipher. Was it curiosity? A warning?
Maria felt the air leave her lungs. Sofia’s photo flickered in her mind. How was she going to explain what she had just seen? How could she ask about that little girl without revealing the most painful secret of her own life, a secret that had consumed her for a decade?
The silence grew thick, almost unbearable. The millionaire’s eyes never left her. It was the moment of truth, or of lies. The moment to be brave, or to disappear.
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