18. Gabriel’s Confession
Gabriel's Confession
Gabriel
Ifound out the way I find out everything in this house—through whispers and shadows and the things people don't say.
It was the servants. They were talking in the kitchen, their voices low, their words careful. But I heard them. I heard her name. I heard my brother's name. I heard the words headboard and broken and all night long, and I felt the world tilt beneath my feet.
I walked out of the kitchen without saying anything. My legs were numb. My hands were shaking. I climbed the stairs to the second floor, my footsteps echoing in the empty hallway, and I stopped outside her door.
I should have knocked. I should have given her the chance to explain. But I didn't. I opened the door and walked in.
She was sitting on the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, her face buried in her hands. She looked up when I entered, and I saw the tears on her cheeks, the redness around her eyes.
She'd been crying.
Good.
"Gabriel," she said. "I—"
"Don't." My voice was sharper than I'd intended. "Don't say anything. Not yet."
I closed the door behind me. Leaned against it. Looked at her—this woman I'd loved from the first moment I saw her, this woman who had let me touch her, kiss her, hold her in the dark.
This woman who had gone to my brother the moment my father was gone.
"Tell me," I said. "Tell me it's not true."
She opened her mouth. Closed it. The silence was answer enough.
"Gabriel, I'm so sorry—"
"Sorry." I laughed. It was an ugly sound, nothing like my usual laugh. "You're sorry. That's what you have to say to me?"
"What else can I say? What else would make this better?"
"Nothing." I pushed off from the door and walked toward her. She flinched, and that hurt more than anything—the way she flinched, like she expected me to hit her. "Nothing you say will ever make this better."
"Gabriel—"
"My father." I stopped in front of her, looking down at her face. "My brother. Is there anyone left? Anyone you haven't been with?"
"It's not like that. It's not—"
"Then what is it like?" I crouched down, bringing myself to her eye level. "Explain it to me. Explain how you could let me kiss you, touch you, tell you things I've never told anyone—and then go to him. To Nathan. My brother."
"Because he was there. Because you weren't. Because I'm broken, Gabriel. I'm broken and I don't know how to fix myself and every time someone touches me, I think maybe this time it will make me whole."
"That's not love. That's desperation."
"I know." A tear slid down her cheek. "I know it's not love. I know I'm using you. All of you. I know I'm a terrible person."
"Then why do I still want you?"
The words came out before I could stop them. I stared at her, my heart pounding, my chest aching with the weight of everything I felt.
"Because I'm the one who's desperate," I said. "Not you. Me. I've been desperate since the first night I saw you through the diner window. Desperate to be near you. Desperate to be seen by you. Desperate to be the one you choose."
"I didn't plan any of this."
"That's the problem." I reached out and touched her face. She leaned into my palm, her eyes closing, her breath hitching. "You don't plan. You just... happen. And we all fall into you."
"Gabriel..."
"I love you, Monika. I've loved you since the first moment you poured me coffee and asked about my classes.
I've loved you through every conversation, every touch, every moment we've shared.
And I will never stop loving you. Even if you choose someone else.
Even if you choose no one. I will never stop. "
She opened her eyes. They were wet, full of tears and something else—something I couldn't name.
"Say something," I said. "Please. Say anything."
She kissed me.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was not a tender kiss. It was a desperate kiss, full of all the things she couldn't say. I kissed her back with the same desperation, my hands in her hair, her body pressed against mine.
We cried. I don't know who started first—her, me, both of us. The tears mingled on our cheeks, salt and sorrow and something that might have been hope.
"I can't promise I'll be better," she said. "I can't promise I won't hurt you again. I'm a mess, Gabriel. I'm so broken."
"Then let me help you heal."
"You can't fix me."
"Maybe not. But I can hold you while you learn to fix yourself."
She pulled back, looking at me with those brown eyes, those steady hands that had saved so many lives.
"I need you to know," she said. "Nathan—it wasn't love. It was... need. Hunger. Something I can't explain."
"I know."
"He's not like you. He doesn't love me. He wants me, but he doesn't love me."
"Don't tell me that." I touched her chin, tilting her face toward mine. "Don't tell me about him. I don't want to hear about him. I just want you. Here. With me."
She nodded. The tears were still falling, but there was something else in her face now—relief, maybe. Or gratitude.
"I want to be the one you choose," I said. "In the end. When this is all over. Choose me."
She didn't answer.
But she pulled me onto the bed with her, and I wrapped my arms around her, and she cried against my chest until there were no tears left.
We lay in the dark for a long time.
The fire had gone out. The candles had burned low. The only light came from the moon through the window, silver and cold, casting shadows across the bed.
"Tell me something good," she whispered. "Something that isn't about this place. About this family. Tell me something good."
I thought about it. The question was harder than it should have been. My life had been so full of darkness—the empire, the violence, the weight of my name. But there were good things, too. Small things. Things I'd almost forgotten.
"When I was a kid," I said, "my mother used to take me to the garden. In the spring, when everything was blooming. She'd show me the flowers and tell me their names in Latin. She said knowing the names of things made them less scary."
"What's your favorite flower?"
"Orchids. Because they remind me of her. And because they're stubborn. They grow in places they shouldn't. They survive things that should kill them."
She was quiet for a moment. Then: "That's beautiful."
"Not as beautiful as you."
She laughed—a soft, broken sound. "You're ridiculous."
"I know."
We lay in silence for a while. I could feel her breathing, slow and even, her body relaxing against mine.
"Tell me something else," she said. "Something about you. Something no one else knows."
"I'm afraid of becoming my father."
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"I know." She lifted her head and looked at me. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but there was a fierceness in them that made my breath catch. "You're not him, Gabriel. You're not capable of the things he's done. You're too good."
"I don't feel good."
"That's because good people never do."
She kissed me—soft this time, almost chaste. When she pulled back, she looked at me with those steady brown eyes, and I saw something in them I hadn't seen before.
Certainty.
"I'm going to get better," she said. "I'm going to figure out who I am and what I want. And when I do—"
"You'll choose me?"
"I'll choose you."
I felt something break open in my chest. A door I'd kept locked for years, a wall I'd built around my heart. I held her tighter, buried my face in her hair, breathed her in.
"I'll wait," I said. "I'll wait as long as it takes."
She didn't say anything. But her arms tightened around me, and I knew she understood.
We fell asleep like that—wrapped around each other, her head on my chest, my hand in her hair. The moon shifted across the sky, the shadows moved across the walls, and I dreamed of orchids and spring and a world where we were free.
When I woke, she was still there.
Her face was peaceful in sleep, the lines of worry smoothed away. She looked younger like this—like the girl she would have been if the farm hadn't failed, if the city hadn't swallowed her, if my family hadn't claimed her.
I watched her breathe. In and out. The rhythm of her chest rising and falling.
I thought about what she'd said. About brokenness. About healing. About choosing.
I didn't know if she'd choose me in the end. I didn't know if she'd choose anyone. But I knew, with a certainty that sat in my bones like a fever, that I would never stop loving her.
Even if she broke me.
Especially if she broke me.
The sun rose, painting the room in shades of gold and pink. She stirred in my arms, her eyes fluttering open.
"Gabriel."
"Morning."
She smiled. It was a small smile, tired at the edges, but real. "You stayed."
"I told you I would."
"I know. I just didn't believe you." She touched my face, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. "You're the only one who keeps his promises."
"I'll always keep my promises. Especially to you."
She kissed me. It was soft and slow, the kind of kiss that didn't ask for anything. When she pulled back, her eyes were bright.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For staying. For not giving up on me. For being you."
I pulled her closer, burying my face in her hair. "I'll never give up on you, Monika. Never."
She held me tight.
And for a moment, I believed that everything would be okay.