Chapter One – “A Beautiful Scene”

Vivienne Langford | First Person POV

They say the museum is haunted now.

It was only ever supposed to be beautiful. That was the word Edward used when we first broke ground — beautiful. He liked the way it sounded. Final, clean, untouchable. He said it with that confident warmth of someone who thought himself incapable of creating anything ugly. And for a while, I believed him.

But beauty is fragile. It cracks easily beneath the weight of memory. And on the night we opened the Langford Exhibit of Modern Memory to the world, it shattered.

“It was supposed to be a celebration — a ribbon-cutting, a night of gowns and wine and whispered money. Instead, I stood beside the exhibit plaque like it might bite me. The Langford Museum was officially reopening its West Wing. No one said the word ‘widow.’ But I wore it anyway, zipped inside the bodice of my dress.”

It began with champagne and a speech. That’s how these things always begin — with laughter and lights, the swell of music echoing under glass ceilings, guests in velvet gowns and pressed tuxedos, moving like water through halls lined with art that none of them would truly understand. I had chosen every piece myself. Paintings by survivors. Sculptures by grief-stricken hands. Photographs salvaged from war zones and bedrooms and broken frames. It was meant to be a sanctuary — a collection of what people leave behind when they are trying to be remembered.

But no one came to remember anything that night.

They came to see Edward. To toast his charm, his philanthropy, the careful story he had wrapped around us like cellophane. He had curated me like one of the exhibits — polished, elegant, distant. The mysterious wife with the strange past and sad eyes. I think he liked that I never corrected them.

Edward Langford knew how to hold a room. He entered late — always late — so the crowd would part for him, the photographers would catch his profile, and the orchestra would seem to crescendo on cue. He brushed a kiss against my cheek, one hand pressing lightly against my waist.

“You look exquisite,” he murmured, not meeting my eyes. “Like a painting no one dares touch.”

It was supposed to be a compliment.

I smiled the way I’d been taught. Just enough to silence questions, not enough to start rumors. We posed beneath the chandelier, his hand firm around mine, the camera flashes strobing like lightning. My dress was deep blue, velvet, sleeveless. His tie matched. We looked perfect. We were not.

I remember everything that night, but I don’t know when it began to go wrong. I don’t know if there was a sign. I don’t know if I missed it. Maybe that’s what haunts me most.

He gave the speech from the atrium.

He was good at speeches. Better than me. I always spoke too softly. He had that theatrical warmth, the kind that made people feel as if he’d built the museum for them. His voice echoed through the domed ceiling. I stood behind him, perfectly poised, one hand curled around the stem of a champagne flute I never drank from.

Then he paused.

It was subtle. A stutter in his rhythm. A brief touch to his chest.

And then — nothing.

He fell.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even loud. Just a small, folding motion, like a curtain closing. He collapsed to the floor with a grace that felt rehearsed.

There was a ripple. A hesitation. No one moved at first. They thought it was part of the performance — Edward, always the showman, always making a point.

But the way his body hit the marble, the way his hand twitched once, then stilled — that was real.

Someone screamed.

I don’t remember who.

I remember kneeling beside him. I remember the hush that fell. The way the music stopped mid-note. The way the light flickered. I touched his face. He was still warm. His lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came. His eyes searched mine.

There was blood in his mouth.

It dripped like punctuation.

And then he stopped.

The news spread quickly. Billionaire Museum Founder Collapses at Gala Opening. The photos were everywhere by morning. They chose the one where I looked least human — pale, distant, my eyes unfocused as if I had seen the future and found it disappointing. They called it tragic. Sudden. Mysterious. They called me a lot of things. The grieving widow. The beautiful curator. The woman with no tears.

I didn’t cry.

Not then.

Not when they led me outside. Not when the sirens arrived. Not when they asked me where he had been, what he had eaten, who he had spoken to last. I answered calmly. I had done this before. Once.

The museum closed for three days. The board voted without me. There were murmurs of postponing the exhibitions, but it was Edward’s dream, they said. He would’ve wanted it to go on. The staff called to check on me. Neighbors left lilies at the gate. The house felt emptier than ever.

I sat in his office for hours that first night, staring at the scotch glass still half-full on his desk.

I never drank. He always did.

I should have known something was wrong. I told myself that again and again. But the truth was — I had felt it long before he died.

Three days later, I returned to the museum.

Not because I was ready, but because it felt worse to stay home. The silence there was too familiar. Too close to the one I had spent years recovering from.

Everything looked the same. The marble shone. The exhibits stood in their glass prisons. The staff nodded in that careful way people do when they don’t know how to speak around death. I walked the halls like a stranger. Like a ghost.

Room 17 was cordoned off.

That’s where he’d fallen.

There was no blood left. They’d cleaned it thoroughly. But I saw it anyway. The imprint of his body. The way his fingers had curled at the end. The space in the marble where something still waited.

They said he’d had a heart attack.

No drugs. No poison. Just stress. Overwork. Champagne.

But I knew Edward.

He didn’t die by accident.