Arianne went to her study after lunch.
The house was empty. The twins were at school, Franz was at Rochefort Group, and Aunt Estella had gone to the market for the afternoon. The only sound was the soft hum of the wind against the windows and the occasional creak of the estate settling around her. She lowered herself into the chair at her desk—a process that required more care now than it had a month ago—and looked at the stack of journals waiting for her.
The first one lay where she had left it, its worn leather cover closed over the entries she had read the day before. Her mother’s words were echoing in her mind. I want to love it. I want to love it so badly. But I’m afraid. She had carried those words with her all night, turning them over in her thoughts like a stone worn smooth by water.
Today was different. The dread that had gripped her before opening the first journal was gone. The anticipation that had made her hands tremble was absent. In its place was something steadier. A resolve. She had begun to understand what kind of woman her mother had been, privileged, pampered, raised to be a trophy wife, but gentle and kind at her core. Ysabella Conway had not experienced bitterness in her entire life. Not until she married Gabriel Summers.
Arianne reached for the second journal and opened it.
The entries began where the first journal had ended. Ysabella was pregnant, and she was writing about it with the same daily consistency she had maintained since before her wedding. Every single day, she put pen to paper. Every single day, she recorded her thoughts.
Estella came with me to the doctor today. She is so kind. I don’t know what I would do without her. Gabriel didn’t ask about the appointment when I returned. He doesn’t ask about anything anymore.
Arianne paused. Aunt Estella had been twenty-four then—younger than Arianne was now. She had been with the family for only a few years, but already she had become Ysabella’s closest companion. The only person who seemed to care whether the pregnancy was progressing well.
The doctor says the baby is healthy. I heard the heartbeat today. It was so fast, like a little bird. I wanted Gabriel to be there. I asked him to come, but he said he was busy. I don’t think he was busy. I think he just didn’t want to be in the same room as me.
Arianne’s hand moved to her own belly. She remembered the first time she had heard her son’s heartbeat—the rapid, rhythmic pulse that had filled the hospital room and changed everything. Franz had been there. He had held her hand. She had not been alone.
Her mother had been alone.
The entries continued, charting the weeks of Ysabella’s pregnancy. She wrote about the nursery, how she had prepared it herself, with Aunt Estella’s help. She painted the walls a soft yellow. She bought baby clothes and blankets and a small wooden crib. She did all of this without Gabriel, who showed no interest in the child she was carrying.
I understand now. I will never replace her. Arianna. I will never be the woman he loved. But this baby is innocent. This baby didn’t choose to be born into this mess. I will love her enough for both of us. I will love her the way Gabriel cannot.
Arianne turned the page. The next entry was dated a few weeks later, and the tone had changed. The resignation had given way to something brighter.
I am having a girl. The doctor confirmed it today. A daughter. I felt such relief when he said it—I cannot explain why. Perhaps because daughters are rarely considered for succession. The Summers family will not fight over her the way they would fight over a son. She will be free from all of that. She can be whoever she wants to be.
Arianne stared at the words. Her mother had been relieved to have a daughter. Relieved that her child would not be pulled into the power struggles of the Summers family. Relieved that she could be free.
My child, you can be anything you want to be. Mom will always support you.
The handwriting was steady here, the letters formed with care. Arianne could almost see her mother sitting at the desk in her studio, writing these words, believing them. Her mother had wanted her. Her mother had loved her, even before she was born. The evidence was right here, in ink that had faded but never disappeared.
She turned more pages. The entries continued, growing more hopeful as the pregnancy progressed. Ysabella had chosen a name. Athaliah. She wanted her daughter to be named Athaliah. The name appeared several times, always written with the same care, as if she was trying it out, seeing how it felt on the page.
Athaliah. It means the Lord is exalted. I know I am not very religious anymore—it is hard to believe in a loving God when your husband looks at you like you are a curse he cannot escape. But I want her to have a name that means something. A name that is hers alone. Not a family name. Not a name chosen to please anyone else. Just hers.
A name that was hers alone. Arianne pressed her palm against her belly. Her son would have a name that was his alone. She and Franz had chosen it together, with care and intention. No one else would name their child. No one else would take that from them.
Ysabella had chosen Athaliah. And Gabriel had stolen it from her.
The entries began to change as the pregnancy progressed into its final months. Ysabella’s health, which had never been robust, began to decline. The doctor ordered bed rest. The daily entries became shorter, more desperate.
I am so tired. The doctor says I must stay in bed, but I cannot stop worrying. What if something goes wrong? What if the baby is not okay? I would not survive it. She is the only good thing in my life. The only thing I have done right.
Please let her be okay. Please let my baby be okay.
I haven’t written in three days. I have been too weak. Estella is here. She reads to me. She tells me the baby will be fine. I want to believe her.
Then there was a gap. A massive leap in dates. When the entries resumed, the handwriting was different, shakier, more erratic. The date was one week after Arianne was born.
I woke up today and they told me I have a daughter. She is beautiful. She has dark hair and dark eyes and the smallest fingers I have ever seen. But they told me something else. Gabriel named her. He named her without me. He named her Arianne. After her. After the woman he loved before me. After the woman who died because of our marriage.
The words blurred. Arianne blinked. Her eyes were wet.
He named my daughter after his dead lover. He did it to hurt me. He did it to spite my family. He did it because he could, because no one would stop him, because I was asleep and helpless and he took the one thing I should have been able to give her. I chose Athaliah. I chose it for her. And he took it away.
Why? Why must my daughter and I be punished so unfairly? What have we done to deserve this? She is innocent. I am innocent. Neither of us chose this marriage. Neither of us chose this life. And yet we are the ones who suffer.
I am so angry. I have never been angry before—not like this. I am angry at Gabriel. I am angry at his family. I am angry at my own family for forcing me into this marriage. I am angry at the world for allowing this to happen. My daughter. My Athaliah. He took her name. He took everything.
The entry ended there. The rest of the pages in the second journal were blank.
Arianne closed the journal. Her hands were not trembling this time. They were steady. She pressed them flat against the worn leather cover and sat without moving in the silence of her study. Outside, the autumn wind stirred the trees. The baby moved inside her, a slow, gentle roll, as if he knew she needed the comfort.
Athaliah. Her mother had wanted to name her Athaliah. A name that meant something. A name that was hers alone. And her father had stolen it. He had taken the one thing Ysabella had chosen for her daughter and replaced it with the name of a dead woman. A constant reminder of everything that had gone wrong. A curse disguised as a memorial.
Arianne had carried that name her entire life. She had hated it. She had wondered why her father had given her a name that belonged to someone else. Now she knew. It wasn’t just a name. It was a punishment. For her mother. For her. For the crime of being born into a marriage that should never have happened.
She looked at the stack of journals on her desk. Twelve more volumes. Twelve more years of her mother’s thoughts. The third journal would pick up where this one left off, with Ysabella, postpartum and devastated, trying to care for a baby who carried another woman’s name.
Arianne would read it. She would read all of them. Today, she needed to sit with what she had learned. Her mother had loved her. Her mother had wanted her. Her mother had chosen a name for her, a beautiful name, a name that meant something.
And her father had taken it away.
She pressed her hand to her belly. "I won’t let anyone take anything from you," she said. "Not your name. Not your future. Not anything."
The baby kicked once, a small, insistent movement, as if he understood.
Arianne closed her eyes and let herself breathe.