For the first time, I will admit that I love them both. Felix for his kindness and being a solid rock, and Henri for how he makes me feel, his passion, and his art. I know that sounds impossible and like a betrayal. But hearts are complicated, and mine holds room for both. It was a messed-up situation, but I found happiness again.
I’m sorry I never told you the truth. I’m sorry I made you doubt what you saw. I’m sorry I let fear win.
But please know you were never an accident or a scandal to be managed. Every part of your existence was planned. You are my greatest accomplishment, the best thing I’ve ever done, and I have loved you every single day of your life.
Be happy, my son. Don’t let fear dictate your heart.
Love fiercely. Love openly. Love without apology.
With allmy heart,
Your Mother
Isabella
I read the letter twice, then a third time. The words blur together, and I have to blink to clear my vision.
When I finally look up, my father is patiently watching me.
“That was touching,” he says.
My brows furrow. “Wait, you knew?”
“I suspected it for a very long time.” He takes a steady breath. “Then I caught them together when I was a teenager. I asked her directly, and she told me I’d misunderstood what I saw and to never mention it again. So, I didn’t. I buried it. Told myself it didn’t matter.”
“And Henri?”
“Days before he passed away, I told him I knew. And that I appreciated him and loved him.” His voice roughens. “He didn’t say anything in response, but he smiled.”
I look down at the letter, at my grandmother’s elegant handwriting, at the love and regret bleeding through every word.
“How do you feel?” I ask.
When he finally speaks, his voice cracks. “Relieved.” He wipes his eyes. “I spent my whole life wondering because no one had confirmed that my mother loved someone other than my father. I wasn’t a bastard child; I came from love.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
“No, it’s not.” He looks at the painting propped against my legs, at the pregnant Isabella with her hand on her belly, at Henri watching from the shadows.
“There are more of these paintings. I’ve named them the Isabellas. They’re landscapes of Grandma.”
“I’ll have to search for them. I guess I didn’t realize they were part of a collection,” he says.
“Not officially. It’s a pattern Addison pointed out,” I explain. “I’d love to show you.”
“I’d enjoy that. She would be proud of you, Louis.”
“I know,” I say with a smile.
We sit in silence, the weight of generations settling around us, and I realize I’m still holding the letter.
“What do you want to do with this?” I ask.
My father is quiet for a moment. “Release it once I’m gone. I think the public should know the truth. So much time will have passed that itwon’t matter. You’ve already corrected history once. Do it again. Please.”
I nod. “Yes, Father. I promise.”
I look at the landscape, at my grandmother’s peaceful face, at Henri standing watch in the background. It’s a love story that’s stayed hidden in plain sight for decades. A secret kept to protect reputations, to preserve the illusion of a perfect royal family.
