Arianne was alone in her study when she opened the last journal.
The house had gone dark and soundless. The twins had been asleep for hours, tucked into their shared bed with Petal and the whale between them. Lily had demanded an extra story before bed, which she had already heard four times but insisted was essential to her sleep routine. Leo had practiced his words before settling down, his voice low and careful as he said "goodnight" to Arianne, then to the baby in her belly. He had been speaking more and more as the weeks passed, each word a small victory.
Franz was still at Rochefort Group, finishing the last of the work he wanted to clear before the baby arrived. He had been working longer hours recently, trying to compress months of responsibilities into the weeks remaining before his son was born. He had called an hour ago to say he was leaving soon, and she had told him to drive safely, and he had said he always did, and she had said that wasn’t true, and he had laughed and promised to be home before midnight.
She was thirty-six weeks pregnant. Her body had become something she barely recognized—heavy and full and constantly in motion, the baby turning and stretching and pressing against her ribs in ways that made her breath catch. She couldn’t sleep through the night anymore. She couldn’t see her feet when she looked down. She couldn’t walk up the stairs without pausing halfway to catch her breath, one hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to her lower back. In four weeks, give or take, her son would be born. In four weeks, everything would change.
But before that happened, she needed to finish what she had started.
The final journal lay on the desk before her, its pages yellowed with age. Fourteen volumes. Fourteen years of her mother’s life. She had read them all, one by one, piecing together the story of a woman she had never fully known.
She had learned about Ysabella’s arranged marriage to a man who never loved her, her unwanted pregnancy with a child she was afraid she couldn’t love, her desperate, hidden affection for the daughter she couldn’t bring herself to hold.
She had learned about the piano lessons, one hour a day, the only time Ysabella allowed herself to be close to her child, the only time she let herself pretend that things might be different. She had learned about the fights with Gabriel, the pleas for divorce, the slow, grinding erosion of hope that had worn her mother down year after year after year.
From the later journals, she already knew how the story darkened. She knew about the drugs the doctors prescribed, pills that were supposed to help but only numbed, that stripped Ysabella of her emotions and left her staring at walls for hours. She knew about the affairs Gabriel conducted openly, the illegitimate children he fathered without shame, the way he flaunted his infidelity like a weapon. She knew about Ysabella’s desperate attempts to escape: the divorce papers she served again and again, the properties she secretly purchased with money she had saved in secret, the plans she made for a life somewhere far away from the Summers estate and everything it represented.
She knew that Ysabella had kept her distance because she was afraid. Afraid of what she might do. Afraid of the darkness that was consuming her from within. Afraid that her touch would somehow damage her daughter, the way everything she touched seemed to turn to ash.
But she also knew that Ysabella had insisted on keeping the piano lessons. One hour a day. No matter how bad the darkness got, no matter how heavy the drugs weighed on her, she showed up for that one hour. She sat beside her daughter on the piano bench and corrected her posture with gentle hands. She listened to Arianne play scales and simple melodies and, later, more complex pieces that showed how much she had learned. In those hours, Ysabella was present. In those hours, she was the mother she wanted to be.
I treasure these hours with Aria. They are the only light in my darkness. When I sit beside her at the piano, I can almost forget everything else. I can almost believe that we are a normal family—a mother and daughter, sharing music, sharing time, sharing love. She is so talented. So determined. She practices until her fingers ache, and then she practices some more. She is everything I wish I could be. She is everything I hoped she would become.
But I am so afraid. I am afraid of what Gabriel will do when he realizes how brilliant she is. I am afraid of the world she will inherit—a world full of Summers and Conways and families that devour their young. I am afraid that I will not be there to protect her. I am afraid that I am already failing her, every day, in ways I cannot even see.
I love her so much it terrifies me. I love her so much I cannot breathe.
Arianne pressed her hand to her mouth and kept reading.
The entries covering her later childhood were a study in contradictions. Ysabella wrote about Arianne’s academic achievements with pride: the math competitions, the reading awards, the way she had taught herself to read at three and never stopped. But alongside the pride was worry. A deep, gnawing fear that her daughter’s brilliance would attract the wrong kind of attention. That Gabriel would notice. That the Summers family would take an interest. That Arianne would be used as a pawn through marriage, just as she was.
Gabriel has started spending time with her. Saturday afternoons in his study. He calls them lessons. He says he is teaching her about finance, about business, about the skills she will need to succeed. But I know what he is really doing. He is testing her. Measuring her. Deciding whether she is useful to him.
I have told him to stay away from her. I have begged him. I have threatened him. He doesn’t listen. He never listens. He looks at Aria and sees her potential. He doesn’t see a child. He doesn’t see my child. He sees an asset.
I am so afraid. Every Saturday, when she goes into his study, I wait outside with my heart full of worry. I count the minutes until she comes out. I search her face for signs of distress. But she always looks the same—calm, composed, unreadable. She is already learning to hide her feelings. She is already becoming like him. And I don’t know how to stop it.
The fights with Gabriel worsened. Ysabella discovered he had fathered several children outside their marriage, Gio among them, though she didn’t know his name then, only that there were more of them, scattered across the city like evidence of his contempt. She confronted him. She demanded to know how many there were, who their mothers were, whether he intended to acknowledge any of them. He gave her nothing. He looked at her with the same cold indifference he had shown since their wedding night and told her it was none of her concern.
She exhausted every avenue to divorce him. Legal channels. Family pressure. Private negotiations through lawyers who grew rich on her desperation. Every single attempt failed. The Summers family closed ranks around Gabriel, protecting their heir from the scandal of divorce. The Conway family refused to intervene, and her own mother told her to be patient, to endure, to remember that marriage was a sacred obligation. Ysabella was trapped, and she knew it, and the knowledge ate at her like acid, corroding everything it touched.
I have served him papers again. He laughed. He said I would never be free of him. He said I belonged to him, like a piece of property, like something he owned. And the worst part is that he is right. The law is on his side. My family is on his side. There is no one who will help me. There is nowhere I can go.
I have saved more money. I have bought another property—a small house in the countryside, far from the city, far from everyone who knows our name. I dream of taking Aria there. I dream of a life where we are free. But every time I try to leave, something stops me. Every time I think I’ve found a way out, the door slams shut. I am so tired. I am so tired of fighting.
And then, the entry that changed everything.
There is a young man I have seen near the estate. He stands across the street, watching the house. He doesn’t approach. He doesn’t speak. He just watches. At first I thought he was a reporter, or someone Gabriel had hired to follow me. He is always there, always watching, his eyes following me whenever I leave the house.
I asked Estella about him. She said she had noticed him too. She said he looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him. There is something about his face that haunts me. Something I should recognize but can’t.
The next entry came three days later.
I know who he is now. His name is Howard Brennan. He is Arianna’s younger brother. Gabriel invited him into our home today—invited him, as if he were an honored guest, as if his sister’s death meant nothing. I watched them together. Gabriel was smiling. Laughing. He put his arm around Howard’s shoulders and said how good it was to see him again, how proud Arianna would have been of the man he’d become.
I wanted to scream. How dare he? How dare he welcome this boy into our home when he is the reason his sister is dead? When his abandonment drove her to take her own life? Does he feel no guilt? Does he feel no shame?
Howard looked at me across the room. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. His eyes—his eyes were full of hatred. I have never seen such hatred in someone so young. He blames me for what happened to Arianna. He blames me for her death. And I cannot say he is wrong.
What have I done? What kind of life have I brought my daughter into?