August 24th, 1985
Hayden transferred to Hallenburry Prep today, and it was more difficult than I ever could have imagined, sending my only son off with the driver to preparatory school. I couldn’t take him myself, as I’m off to Paris for a few impossible-to-miss fittings. The tousle he got himself into at his last preparatory school appears to be behind us, I believe. He looked absolutely handsome in his uniform, and while he seems to have only eyes for fencing, soon I know young women will be fighting for the attentions of my dashing boy. Oh, how I wish my son to know a love other than his Mothers. He has an anger in him; it softens only when he's sporting, and perhaps this timeaway will teach him a wider range of emotions than his father and I were capable of lending. Being without my boy will be difficult, but soon I’ll have him back in my arms when we charter this summer to the coasts. I only hope my son is gentler this time with the other students; the anger he's known to have has only grown. Perhaps more time away from the estate will do him well…
I snap the diary shut, realising this entry was in the last year of Hailey's life.
I can’t stop thinking of the pain Hayden must have felt, growing up without parents—and I, oddly, am no different. While mine were there in performance, his were taken from him before he had a chance to know them. Could my captor have turned out differently had he not felt the pain of loss at such a young age?
This forces me to think about my own horrific tragedy, only experienced far older and far more aware than Hayden was when he suffered his loss.
Which brings me to my own musings about my mother. Would my father kill her? It’s the question that festers, the one that no amount of fine wine or captivity can drown out. He wasn’t a good man, but he was calculated. If he did it, there had to be a reason. A reason I was never meant to understand. And if he could do that, then what else had he done? What else had he hidden from me?
I swirl the wine in my glass, watching the deep red coat the sides before taking another sip, letting it slide down my throat. And then there’s Hayden. What is his endgame? Is he just messing with me, waiting for the right moment to decidewhether I live or die? Or is he playing some deeper, crueler game I haven’t figured out yet?
And Archie?
I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head as I slump deeper into the chair. Archie. My father’s perfect choice. My predetermined fate. Did any of that still stand? Was I still supposed to marry him, to slip back into the role that had been carved out for me once Hayden grew tired of being my tormenter? Or had I been completely discarded, left to whatever fate Hayden deemed appropriate?
The thought churns in my stomach, heavier than the wine. If Hayden had been spending all this time in Eulogia, had he been watching even then? Had he been circling, waiting, pulling strings before I even realized there were strings to be pulled?
How long had he been reading my diaries? Were there more apples left, like warnings, that I was too oblivious to notice?
I drain the last of my glass and reach for the bottle, refilling it. The fire crackles beside me, the only sound in the vast, empty room. I don’t have answers.
But I do have wine.
The hours slip by, blurred at the edges by the slow, creeping haze of intoxication. I read more about Hayden and his family, devouring their history as if it were my key to freedom. I don’t bother keeping track of how much I drink, just enough to take the sharpness off, enough to let the warmth of the fire lull me into a state that vaguely resembles comfort.
At some point, I abandon the ledgers. The maid appears, silent as a ghost, setting down a plate of crackers and cheese as I throw first edition after first edition in a pile, hunting for my ideal reprieve. I barely notice her at first, lost in my own spiraling thoughts, but when I glance over, she’s already on her way out, moving with the kind of efficiency that suggests she’sdone this before. Like she knew exactly what I’d end up doing today.
She comes and goes throughout the afternoon, each time leaving a small offering behind—sliced fruit, a bowl of nuts, a third bottle of wine when she sees me tilt my head just slightly. I don’t acknowledge her, and she doesn’t expect me to.
It’s an unspoken agreement: I drink, and she makes sure I don’t do it on an empty stomach.
I pick at my manicure, worried Hayden will no longer let my preferred manicurist come to the estate. Of all the things to worry about, I find it’s the most trivial of all that holds my interest. The wine blurring my ability to form a complex thought, I sit in silence, upset that I may not see my hairdresser for quite some time.
The fire crackles, the library’s golden light stretching long as the day fades into evening. I should be plotting. I should be doing something productive. Instead, I take another sip, sinking deeper into the chair, letting the hours slip through my fingers like sand.
While I spent the day pretending to be a woman intent on escape, it’s the craving to surrender—to indulge—that wins out. I’m exhausted from fighting this pull toward Hayden. This magnetic, ruinous need between us is strong enough to make me question my morals entirely. Women don’t have power in this world, and the wine is numbing the walls of delusion I built around myself today.
Before I know it, the daylight has faded, the fire now casting flickering shadows along the library walls. The logs in the hearth are low, barely crackling, their warmth dull but steady. I push myself up from the chair, the movement making my head tilt slightly, the pleasant buzz of the wine running over my skin.
I tug my sweater down, smoothing the fabric against my stomach as I steady myself. The library, with its endless shelvesand rich mahogany tones, feels cocoon-like in the dim light. Cozy. Safe. But none of this is safe, is it? I shake my head, exhaling slowly. I need to pull myself together. I need to focus.
As wrong as it may seem. I’ve always known this would be my future. Quiet, silent, well-behaved. The perfect wife, destined to hide behind sunglasses and pills like my mother.
But there’s something about Hayden. He makes me want to claw his face. Set the room on fire. He makes me want to scream. And that isn’t the woman I’m supposed to be.
I’m supposed to be Martine Lilian Franklin. Wife, hostess, daughter-in-law to a man whose temper could land you a fist to the face if you weren’t careful.
That’s a fate I can say I’m glad I don’t have to face yet.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’ll figure out what comes next.
Tonight, I drink.
But as I stand there, swaying slightly, my drunk thoughts betray me. They slip back to the night before, to the sound of his voice curling around commands like practiced elegance.
Kneel.
