Chapter 13 Vivianne Brigitte
THIRTEEN
Vivianne: Brigitte
The mansion sleeps around me, a behemoth of stone and shadow that feels more like a mausoleum than a home.
My bare feet whisper against the plush carpet as I navigate halls I've known my entire life, yet tonight they feel foreign.
Menacing. Moonlight spills through the towering windows, painting everything in shades of silver and doubt.
My pulse hammers against my ribs. Each step toward the west wing tightens the vise around my chest, makes my breath come shorter, faster.
The air feels thick, pressing against my skin like a physical weight.
Every creak of the floorboards sends a jolt of adrenaline through my system, and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
I shouldn't be doing this. Father would—
No. I push the thought away. I'm done being the obedient daughter who asks permission to breathe.
The west wing looms ahead, its doorway a dark mouth waiting to swallow me whole. Father sealed these rooms the day after Grandmother's funeral, as if grief could be contained behind a locked door, as if memories could be buried along with the dead.
I wasn't allowed to say goodbye to her space, to sit one last time at her vanity, or curl up in her reading chair where she used to read to me. Just like I was too young to say goodbye to Mother when she died, too small to understand that gone meant forever.
Everyone I've ever loved has been taken from me or locked away.
The brass doorknob is cold beneath my trembling fingers.
I half-expect it to be locked, half-expect Father to have changed the locks or installed some security measure I don't know about.
This house is full of secrets I'm not privy to, after all.
Hidden safes. Concealed vaults. Lies stacked upon lies.
But the knob turns. The door yields.
Musty air rushes out to greet me, thick with dust and the ghost of Chanel No.
5—Grandmother's signature scent. It hits me like a physical blow, and for a moment, I can't breathe.
Can't move. I'm six years old again, pressing my face into her cardigan, inhaling that smell of lavender and face powder and safety.
Except she wasn't safe, was she? She never stood up to her own son. Never protected me. Never fought.
I slip inside and ease the door shut behind me, my pulse thundering so loud I'm certain someone will hear it. Darkness presses in, oppressive and complete. My fingers fumble along the wall, searching for the switch. When I find it, soft lamplight blooms, and I have to bite back a gasp.
It's exactly as she left it. As if she just stepped out for tea and will return any moment to find me snooping through her things.
The room is frozen in time—her reading glasses folded on the side table, a book still marked with a ribbon at page one hundred and forty-three.
Her slippers arranged neatly beside the bed.
The throw blanket she crocheted draped over the armchair by the window, the one where she'd sit for hours watching the gardens.
Her gardens. The only place in this entire estate that felt warm.
My throat tightens. Grief wells up, sharp and unexpected, after all these years. I force it down, swallow it back. I'm not here to mourn. I'm here for answers.
I move to her vanity, its ornate mirror reflecting my pale face back at me.
My fingers trail across the surface, leaving tracks in the dust. One by one, I ease open drawers, rifling through forgotten treasures that smell of another lifetime.
A tarnished silver hairbrush with a few gray hairs still caught in its bristles.
Faded ribbons in colors she favored—dusty rose, sage green. A half-empty bottle of Chanel No. 5.
Nothing. Just the detritus of a life lived small. Confined. Silent.
Frustration builds in my chest, hot and tight. There has to be something here. Something that explains why Father reacted so violently to those paintings, why that ruby necklace matters so much, why everything in this family feels like a carefully constructed lie.
A glint of gold catches my eye. Tucked beneath a silk scarf, nearly hidden, is a locket I've never seen before. My breath catches as I lift it. The metal warms in my palm, and my hands shake as I pry it open.
Two photos. One of my grandmother as a young woman—but not the grandmother I knew. This woman is radiant, her eyes bright with mischief, her smile wide and uninhibited. She's beautiful in a way that steals my breath. Alive in a way I never saw her.
The other photo shows a man I don't recognize. Dark hair, intense eyes, a smile that suggests he knows secrets worth keeping. He's devastatingly handsome in that old-fashioned way, and something about the set of his jaw reminds me of—
No. It can't be.
But the way he looks at the camera, as if seeing right through it to the person holding it... it's the same way Paul looks at me.
My search grows frantic. There has to be more. I run my hands along the underside of the vanity, feeling for anything unusual. My fingers find a slight unevenness, barely perceptible. I press, and—
Click.
A small drawer slides open, revealing a bundle of yellowed envelopes tied with a faded ribbon. My hands shake so badly I nearly drop them.
The top envelope bears a name in elegant script: Brigitte.
Not Grandmother. Not Mrs. Faulks. Just Brigitte. A woman's name. A person, not just a role.
My pulse slams against my ribs. The ribbon's silk frays beneath my fingers as I untie it, the delicate fibers threatening to crumble. The first letter unfolds, revealing bold, passionate handwriting that seems to pulse with urgency.
My dearest Brigitte,
I sink onto the edge of her bed, unable to stand. Unable to process what I'm seeing.
I write this under the dim light of a candle, its flame flickering like the fragile hope I cling to in these dark times. The sounds of war surround me—boots on stone, the distant rumble of artillery—and yet my thoughts are only of you.
War. Artillery. This is old. Very old.
I fear what this world is becoming, the shadows of battle growing longer with each passing day.
But more than anything, I fear the day when I can no longer reach out and feel your warmth, when your laughter becomes a memory lost in the din of war.
The nights are cold here, but colder still is the thought of a world without you in it.
My grandmother's laughter. I try to remember it and can't. When did she stop laughing? Was it before I was born, or did I just never notice?
I hold on to the moments we shared, the stolen kisses under the stars, your smile that has kept me alive more times than I can count. I carry your love with me, a shield against the madness that surrounds me. It is my only armor, my only strength.
Stolen kisses. My prim, proper grandmother who never raised her voice, never contradicted Father, never showed a hint of passion about anything—she had stolen kisses under the stars?
If I do not return—though I will fight like hell to make sure I do—know that every beat of my heart belongs to you, now and always. Until I can hold you again, I remain yours, in this life and the next.
Forever yours, Anthony
Anthony. The man in the locket. The fire to Grandfather Henry's steadfast earth.
A memory surfaces, sharp and vivid...
I'm six years old, curled in Grandmother's lap in the sunroom. Afternoon light streams through the windows, turning everything gold. She smells like lavender and powder, and her arms around me feel like the safest place in the world. The only safe place in a house full of Father's cold disapproval.
"Vivvy, darling, let me tell you a story of two men I once knew." Her voice is softer than usual.
I nestle closer, captivated by something different in her tone. Something almost... wistful.
"One was like fire." Her voice takes on a dreamlike quality I've never heard before.
"Passionate, intense, burning so bright it almost hurt to look at him.
" Her fingers absently stroke my hair. "His eyes.
.. oh, Vivvy, they held entire worlds. When he looked at me, I felt like the only person in existence. "
Even at six, I can hear the longing in her voice. The loss.
"The other was steadfast as the earth, reliable and strong. A rock in stormy seas, always there, always constant."
"Like in fairy tales, Grandma? The dashing prince and the noble knight?"
"Oh, if only life were so simple, my love. Both men held pieces of my heart in such different ways." Her laugh is sad. So sad.
"But you chose Grandpa, right? He was the best one?"
A shadow crosses her face. "I chose between them. For family, for duty." Her hand cups my cheek, her eyes boring into mine with sudden intensity. "But remember, Vivvy, true love... it leaves its mark on you forever. It shapes you, changes you in ways you can't always see."
"Does it hurt?"
"Sometimes, my darling. But the pain reminds me that I once loved and loved deeply. And that's a precious thing." Her smile is bittersweet.
Now, sitting on her bed with Anthony's letter in my hands, I understand. She wasn't telling me a fairy tale. She was confessing. Warning me. Trying to give me something she never had—a choice.
But she still didn't fight for me. Still let Father control me, just like she let him control her.
My hands shake as I unfold the next letter.
My dearest Brigitte,
The war presses harder against us each day.
I feel it in the air, heavy and suffocating, as though the very earth beneath my feet trembles with uncertainty.
Yet, in the midst of all this chaos, you are my anchor.
Every time I close my eyes, I see you—your smile, the way your hair catches the light.
You've become my sanctuary, the only place my soul finds peace.
I can't reconcile this passion with the quiet woman who raised me. The woman who moved through this house like a ghost, never making waves, never demanding anything for herself.