The news of Elena's return came casually, dropped into conversation as though it were unimportant.
"She'll be here next week," Victor said over dinner, his eyes fixed on his plate.
Anya paused mid-bite. "Elena?" she asked, her tone neutral.
Victor nodded, his face giving nothing away. "She's back from Paris. Said she's staying for a while."
The words lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Anya forced a smile. "That's nice. It'll be good to see her again."
But her heart tightened.
Elena arrived on a bright Thursday morning, her presence as commanding as ever. She swept into the house carrying an oversized suitcase, her dark curls bouncing and her smile dazzling.
"Anya!" Elena exclaimed, wrapping her in a warm embrace. "You look wonderful!"
Anya returned the hug, murmuring polite pleasantries. Elena's perfume—a mix of jasmine and something exotic—lingered even after she stepped back. Victor appeared then, his face lighting up in a way Anya hadn't seen in years.
"Elena," he said, his voice unusually warm.
"Victor," Elena replied with a grin, pulling him into a hug. Anya stood to the side, watching the easy familiarity between them.
For the first few days, Elena's return was a whirlwind of activity. She filled the house with laughter and stories of her adventures in Paris. Anya listened dutifully, though she couldn't help but notice how Victor hung on Elena's every word.
One evening, as they sat around the dinner table, Elena recounted an anecdote about a gallery opening where she had met a famous art collector.
"And then he said, 'Your work reminds me of Matisse,'" Elena said, laughing. "I almost fainted!"
Victor chuckled, his eyes sparkling. "I've always said you were talented. I'm not surprised."
Anya smiled politely, her chest tightening. It wasn't just what Victor said—it was how he said it. The warmth in his voice, the admiration in his gaze. She hadn't seen that side of him in years, and now it was on full display for someone else.
The shift was subtle at first. Victor lingered longer at the table when Elena was around, his usual aloofness replaced with attentiveness. He laughed more, talked more, and seemed energized in a way that made Anya feel like a ghost in her own home.
One afternoon, Anya came home from running errands to find Victor and Elena in the garden. They were sitting on the bench, their heads close together as they examined one of Elena's sketchbooks.
"This one's incredible," Victor said, his voice filled with awe.
Elena laughed, playfully nudging his shoulder. "You're just saying that."
"No, I mean it," Victor insisted.
Anya stood in the doorway, unnoticed. She felt like an intruder in her own life, watching a scene she wasn't meant to see.
That night, as Victor lay asleep beside her, Anya replayed the day's events in her mind. She tried to convince herself that she was overthinking it. They were just close. They always had been.
But deep down, she knew better.