Three days had passed since the meeting with Daryll and Monica, and two weeks since she had stood in her mother’s studio and wept for a woman she had never understood.
The moving of belongings from the old Summers estate was ongoing. It was taking longer than expected. The old furniture had to be sorted, appraised, sold. The sales mostly covered the cost of transportation and the moving company, which was efficient but expensive. Gio was supervising everything, but he was working full-time at Rochefort Group, which meant he could only schedule the movers on weekends. The process was slow, methodical, and entirely out of Arianne’s hands.
She was in her study when Gio knocked and entered, his tablet in his hand and his expression professionally neutral. He gave her a quick overview of the progress—which rooms had been cleared, which items had been sold, what remained to be moved. The important documents were already stored on the third level, waiting for her to sort through them after the baby was born.
"You don’t need to report everything to me," Arianne said when he finished. "Only what’s necessary."
"I know. I’m keeping you informed in case there’s something you want to retrieve before it’s sold."
"Is there anything I should retrieve?"
"Not yet. Most of it is furniture. Old pieces, well-made but not sentimental. Your mother’s studio has been packed separately. The instruments, the paintings, the personal items—those are already in the guest house."
Arianne nodded. She didn’t ask about the journals. She knew where they were. They were right here, in her study, stacked on the corner of her desk where Franz had placed them two weeks ago. She hadn’t touched them since.
Gio hadn’t moved to leave. He remained in front of her desk. "Are you in pain?" he asked.
"No. I’m uncomfortable. There’s a difference."
"You look tired."
"I’m always tired. The baby doesn’t let me sleep through the night anymore." She adjusted in her chair, trying to find a position that didn’t make her back ache. "I’m also bored. Give me something to do. Work. Reports. Anything."
Gio stared at her for a long moment. It was rare for him to see his older sister without something to occupy her mind. Arianne had been working since she was old enough to understand what work was. She had built her identity on being capable, efficient, essential. Pregnancy had stripped her of that, at least temporarily, and she was learning how to exist without the constant pressure of deadlines and decisions.
"I could give you some reports to review," he said slowly. "Monthly summaries from the subsidiaries. Nothing too demanding."
"Do it."
"I doubt Franz would approve."
"Franz doesn’t get a vote. He’s not the one carrying the baby."
Gio’s mouth twitched—the closest thing to a smile he ever allowed himself. "I’ll send you the files. But if he asks, I’m telling him you threatened me."
"I did threaten you."
"No, you didn’t. You just looked at me the way you look at people before you dismantle their arguments."
"That’s a threat."
"It’s an implication. There’s a legal difference."
She waved her hand in dismissal, and Gio left, pulling the door closed behind him.
The study was silent. The twins were visiting Layla’s parents, Jessica and Paul had asked to take them for the afternoon, and Arianne had agreed. Franz wouldn’t be home for another three hours. The house was empty except for Aunt Estella, who was somewhere downstairs, and the low hum of the autumn wind against the windows.
Arianne’s eyes drifted to the stack of journals on her desk.
Fourteen volumes. Leather-bound, worn at the edges, arranged in chronological order. Franz had placed them there himself two weeks ago, after they returned from the estate. He hadn’t said a word about them. He hadn’t asked if she was going to read them. He hadn’t pushed or hinted or applied any of the gentle pressure he was so good at applying. He had put them within reach and trusted her to decide when she was ready.
She knew his intention. He wanted her to be free from the questions that had haunted her since she was thirteen years old, kneeling beside her mother’s body in the study of their old house. If her own mother couldn’t love her, what did that say about who she was?
She had carried that question for decades. It was time to find the answer.
She reached for the first journal.
The leather was soft beneath her fingers, worn smooth by years of handling. She held it in her lap for a long moment, feeling its weight. The baby stirred inside her—a gentle flutter, as if he knew something important was happening. Then she opened the cover.
The handwriting was elegant, exactly like the letters she had seen in the studio. Her mother’s hand. Her mother’s words. The first entry was dated several months before Arianne was born, before Ysabella had even married Gabriel Summers.
I am to be married. Mother says he is a good match—the Summers family is wealthy, well-connected, everything the Conways could want in an alliance. I have not met him yet. I am nervous. I hope he is kind. I hope we can learn to love each other, in time.
Arianne turned the page. The next entry was dated a few weeks later.
I met Gabriel today. He is handsome. Serious. He didn’t smile at me, but perhaps he was nervous too. I told myself that was the reason. Mother says I should be grateful—he is a good prospect, and I am lucky to be chosen. I want to be a good wife. I will try to be a good wife.
The entries continued, charting the weeks leading up to the wedding. Ysabella wrote about the dress her mother had chosen, the flowers, the guests who would attend. She wrote about her hopes for the marriage, companionship, respect, perhaps eventually love. She sounded young. She sounded hopeful. She sounded like a woman who had no idea what was waiting for her.
Then came the entry after the wedding.
We are married. It has been three days. Gabriel has not visited my room. I asked one of the servants if this was normal, and she looked at me with pity. I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong.
The entries grew shorter after that. Sparse. Ysabella wrote less frequently, and when she did, her words were heavy with confusion and a growing despair.
I heard the servants talking. There was a woman before me. Her name was Arianna. Gabriel loved her. He wanted to marry her, but his family refused. They forced him to choose me instead.
Arianne’s hands tightened on the journal. She kept reading.
She died. She took her own life after our wedding. I didn’t know. No one told me. I have ruined a woman’s life just by existing. Gabriel looks at me with contempt. He blames me for her death. He blames my family. He blames everyone except himself. I tried to speak with him tonight, to tell him I didn’t know, that I never would have agreed to the marriage if I had understood what it would cost. He didn’t listen. He never listens.
The entries became shorter. Days passed between them. Then weeks. Ysabella’s handwriting, once so elegant and precise, grew tighter, more compressed, as if she was trying to contain her feelings within the smallest possible space.
And then, the final entry of the first journal.
I am pregnant. I don’t know how to feel. There is a child growing inside me—my child—and I want to love it. I want to love it so badly. But I’m afraid. I’m afraid I won’t be able to. I’m afraid the baby will look at me and see everything I’ve done wrong. I’m afraid I will look at the baby and see Gabriel’s contempt reflected back at me. I want to be a good mother. I want to love this child the way I was never loved. But I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I’m capable of it. I’m so afraid.
The entry ended there. The rest of the pages in the first journal were blank.
Arianne closed the journal. Her hands were trembling. She pressed them flat against the worn leather cover, trying to steady herself. Outside, the autumn wind stirred the trees. The house was silent. The baby moved inside her—a slow, gentle roll, as if he was turning in his sleep.
Her mother had been afraid. Not cold. Not indifferent. Afraid. Afraid she wouldn’t be able to love her child. Afraid the child would see her the way Gabriel saw her, as a replacement, a consolation prize, a constant reminder of the woman he had lost.
Arianne understood that fear. She had felt it herself, in the hospital room when Dr. Johnson told her she was pregnant. The dread that had gripped her, unexpected and overwhelming. The terror that she would become her mother. That she would look at her child and feel nothing.
She looked at the stack of journals waiting on her desk. Thirteen more volumes. Thirteen more years of her mother’s thoughts. The second journal would pick up where this one left off, with Ysabella pregnant, afraid, trying to find her way through a marriage she had never wanted and a motherhood she wasn’t sure she was capable of.
Arianne would read it. She would read all of them. But not today. Today, one was enough. One had already broken something open inside her.
She set the first journal aside, her hand lingering on its worn cover. The baby kicked against her palm. She pressed her hand to the spot, feeling the small, insistent movement.
"I understand." Her voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. "I understand now."
She didn’t know if she was speaking to her mother or to her son. Perhaps both.