Only when I'm safely behind my locked door do I allow myself to breathe.
I press my back against the door, sliding down to sit on the floor. My whole body shakes with adrenaline and grief and something that might be hope.
I know the truth now. At least part of it.
My grandmother loved deeply and chose duty, and it killed her. Made her into a shadow. A cautionary tale I'm supposed to learn from.
But I'm learning the wrong lesson, aren't I?
I'm not supposed to see that choosing duty destroyed her. I'm supposed to see that duty matters more than love. That family expectations matter more than personal happiness. That women like us don't get to choose—we surrender.
Except I'm done surrendering.
Tomorrow, I'll find a way back to those letters. I'll piece together the rest of the story. I'll figure out how that ruby necklace fits into this tragedy, why Father is so desperate to keep it hidden.
And then I'll make my choice. Not the choice my grandmother made. Not the choice Father demands.
My choice.
FOURTEEN
Vivianne: Sentinel
The breakfast roomsmells of fresh coffee and something sweet—cinnamon rolls, maybe, or those delicate French pastries Father insists on ordering from the bakery in the city. My stomach should growl at the scent. Instead, it twists into knots.
Across the table, Father sits like a king at court, his newspaper held high—a shield, a wall, a reminder that I'm not worth looking at. The pages rustle as he turns them, crisp and deliberate. Each snap of paper feels like a slap.
I sit woodenly in my chair, last night's discoveries pressing down on my chest like a physical weight. Anthony's letters. Grandmother's confession. The woman she could have been, burned away by duty until only ash remained.
Clara, one of our servers, glides in with a silver tray. She sets down a plate of pastries, their golden crusts gleaming with butter. The scent intensifies, rich and cloying, and my stomach rebels.
"You're not eating." Father's voice cuts through the quiet like a blade. He doesn't lower the paper.
I force myself to reach for a croissant, tearing off a small piece. It's still warm, the layers flaking apart in my fingers. I bring it to my lips but can't make myself bite down.
"Not hungry."
The paper lowers. Those steel-gray eyes lock onto mine, and I shrink, becoming smaller under his gaze. It's a trick he's mastered—making me feel like I'm six years old again, standing before him with mud on my shoes, waiting for judgment.
"You look tired." He sets his coffee cup down with a deliberate click against the saucer. "Late night?"
My pulse slams against my ribs. The croissant crumbles between my fingers, flakes falling onto the china plate like snow. Does he know? Did Marcus tell him more than I thought?
"Couldn't sleep."
"Hmm." He lifts his cup again, drinks slowly, never breaking eye contact. "Marcus mentioned finding you in your grandmother's wing. At three in the morning."
Not a question. An accusation dressed up as casual conversation.
I swallow hard, tasting bile. "I was looking for something."
"And did you find it?"
The question sounds almost pleasant. Almost. But the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tighten around the cup's handle?—
"Some old letters. From the war."
The temperature in the room drops. The air goes still and cold, like we're suddenly encased in ice.
