Chapter 13 Vivianne Brigitte #2
I'm not the man I was when I left you. Each battle strips something from me, something I fear I'll never get back.
But what remains, what keeps me standing, is the thought of coming home to you.
Every letter you send is a lifeline, a reminder that there is still beauty and love in this world, though it often feels like a dream I may never touch again.
Did she write back? Did she send those lifelines, or did her silence begin even then?
I don't know when this war will end. I only know that when it does, I need you by my side. Hold on to me, my love, as I hold on to you. I fight not just for country or honor, but for us—always for us.
Yours eternally, Anthony
Yours eternally. But she wasn't his, was she?
The next letter unfolds in my trembling hands.
My dearest Brigitte,
I dream of you often, of the day I'll finally come back to you. It's the thought of that moment—your arms around me, your laughter filling the air—that keeps me going through all of this.
Her laughter. God, when did she stop laughing?
I've asked my best friend, Henry, to check in on you while I'm away. I trust him with my life, and I know he'll keep you safe, just as I wish I could. It brings me some comfort to know someone I trust is near you, even if I can't be.
Oh no. Oh God, no. Henry. Grandfather Henry?
My stomach drops. I know how this story ends, and suddenly I don't want to keep reading. But I can't stop. The words pull me forward like a current I'm powerless to resist.
The war feels endless, but I hold on to the hope that soon I'll be able to look into your eyes and feel like myself again. Stay strong, my love. We will have our time again, I promise you that.
With all my heart, Anthony
"Stay strong," I whisper to the empty room. "But she didn't, did she?"
The betrayal is there in the next letter before I even unfold it. I can feel it in the quality of the paper, the urgency of the handwriting.
My dearest Brigitte,
It's been weeks since I've heard from you.
I tell myself that letters can be delayed in times like these, but the silence gnaws at me.
The war intensifies around us—bombs rain down like a ceaseless storm, and the fear grows thicker each day.
I feel... lost without your words. I'm fighting in a fog with no direction.
My chest aches. I know this feeling. The silence of someone who should love you but doesn't respond. The desperate need for confirmation that you still matter, that you're still seen.
I need to hear from you. I need to know that your heart still beats with mine, that the world outside these trenches hasn't swallowed us whole. I've seen so much death, too much for any man to bear, but losing you would be the one blow I could not recover from.
I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood. Don't cry. Don't cry.
But I am crying. For him. For her. For all of us trapped in cycles we can't break.
Please send word soon. Tell me you're still waiting for me, that you still believe in what we have. Without you, none of this makes sense.
With all my love, Anthony
The next letter trembles in my hands.
My dearest Brigitte,
There's a strange shift in the air. I can feel it in every bone, a prelude to something I cannot yet name. I haven't received a single reply from you. I've heard from Henry, and he said he saw you not long ago. He mentioned you looked well, that you were smiling.
No. No no no.
It should have brought me comfort, but instead it twisted something inside me.
He knew. On some level, he already knew.
I try to focus on my duties, but my mind is always with you, wondering why your letters stopped, why I feel this growing distance between us.
Is it me? Is it the war? Has it changed me too much?
I look in the mirror and don't recognize the man staring back.
I wonder if you won't recognize him either.
My throat constricts. The desperation in his words is palpable, reaching across decades to wrap around me and squeeze.
I don't know what I'm asking for. Just... some kind of sign. Something to tell me you haven't slipped away from me.
Forever yours, Anthony
But she had slipped away. Chose safety over passion. Duty over desire.
Just like she never fought for me.
The final letter isn't from Anthony. The handwriting is different—smaller, more controlled. Feminine. I recognize it from birthday cards and Christmas notes written in my childhood.
My grandmother's hand.
My dearest Anthony,
My breath catches. She wrote to him. Finally, she wrote to him.
This letter is one I never thought I'd have to write, but after months of silence, I cannot continue to keep my heart locked away from the truth.
So much has changed since you left for the war, more than I could have anticipated.
We've both changed, and I fear that the distance between us is now more than just miles.
Cold. It's so cold compared to his letters. So measured. So careful.
I've grown close to Henry. He's been here through all the uncertainty, through the fear, and somewhere along the way, my feelings shifted. It wasn't intentional, but I must be honest with you, as much as it pains me to say. I love him. And I've chosen him.
She chose his best friend. The man he trusted to keep her safe. The betrayal is staggering, even now, even knowing how the story ends.
I know this will hurt you. I never meant to cause you pain, but I couldn't wait any longer. I hope that one day, you'll understand, though I don't expect forgiveness. Please, take care of yourself. You are a good man, but I can no longer be yours.
Goodbye, Brigitte
Goodbye. Just... goodbye. After everything, that's all she gave him.
I stare at the letter, trying to reconcile it with the woman I knew. The woman who stroked my hair and told me stories. Who let Father control her, control me, control everything.
She made her choice for duty. For safety. For the man who was there instead of the man she loved.
And it hollowed her out. Turned her from that vibrant woman in the locket—eyes bright with mischief, smile wide and uninhibited—into the ghost who raised me. The woman who taught me, through silence and surrender, that love wasn't worth fighting for.
But the letter was never sent. It's here, with his letters, hidden in a secret drawer. She kept them all. Every single one. Even the letter she wrote to end it, she couldn't let go.
She carried this with her for her entire life. This grief. This loss. This choice she made killed something vital inside her.
Is that why she never fought for me? Because she'd already lost her own battle? Because she'd chosen safety once and knew, bone-deep, that it was the wrong choice, but couldn't bear to see me make a different one?
The weight of it presses down on me, suffocating. I sink to the floor, letters scattered around me like fallen leaves. Like all the words she never said, all the fights she never fought.
My grandmother loved someone deeply—loved him enough that losing him carved her hollow. And she still chose duty. Chose family expectations. Chose the safe path.
And it destroyed her.
I clutch the letters to my chest, and the tears come hot and fast. For Anthony. For my grandmother, who lived her entire life as a shell of who she could have been. For my mother, who I'll never know, who might have fought for me if she'd lived.
For myself. Trapped in the same cycle. Engaged to Prescott. Under Father's control. Repeating history.
No.
The word crystallizes in my mind, sharp and clear.
No. I won't do this. I won't become her—carrying regret like a stone in my chest for the rest of my life, letting fear make my choices, surrendering myself piece by piece until there's nothing left.
The ground shifts beneath me. Everything I thought I knew about my family is crumbling. The Faulks legacy isn't built on strength, honor, or tradition.
It's built on lies. Stolen love. Women who sacrificed themselves on the altar of duty and spent their lives as ghosts in their own homes.
Well, I'm done being a ghost.
Loyalty wars within me. To Father, who raised me but kept me prisoner. To Paul, who awakened something in me I can't deny—something my grandmother felt once and lost. To Grandmother herself, whose choices shaped my fate.
But maybe it's time to be loyal to myself. To the woman I could be, if I had the courage to choose differently than she did.
I gather the letters with shaking hands. There's more to uncover, more truths lurking beneath the surface. The ruby necklace. Merlin. The connection between Anthony and Paul.
But first, I need to hide these. Protect them. They're evidence of something Father desperately wants to keep buried—proof that the Faulks family's perfect image is built on betrayal and loss.
A creak echoes from the hallway. Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate.
Marcus.
Panic explodes in my chest. My breath catches, pulse slamming against my ribs. He can't find me here. Father will—
I scramble to my feet, shoving the letters back into the hidden compartment with trembling fingers. The latch sticks, refusing to close properly. My palms grow slick with sweat. The footsteps grow louder. Closer.
Come on, come on, come on—
Click. The compartment seals. I slam the drawer shut, the sound too loud in the silent room. I lunge for the armchair by the window, trying to arrange myself as if I'd been sitting there all along, just a grieving granddaughter seeking comfort in memories.
The door swings open.
Marcus fills the doorway, his bulk casting a long shadow across the floor. His eyes narrow, suspicious, sweeping over the room with precision. He's Father's man through and through—loyal, observant, dangerous.
"Miss Faulks?" His voice is flat, giving nothing away. "What are you doing in here?"
I force a smile, praying he can't hear the frantic gallop in my chest. "Couldn't sleep." I gesture vaguely at the room. "I just... I miss her sometimes."
It's not entirely a lie. I do miss her. Or maybe I miss the woman she could have been, if she'd been braver.
Marcus steps further into the room, and I resist the urge to shrink back. His gaze sweeps over the vanity, and my stomach drops. Did I close all the drawers? Is everything exactly as it was?
"Your father doesn't like anyone disturbing your grandmother's rooms."
"I know." I stand, smoothing my nightgown with hands that won't stop shaking. "I just needed... I don't know. Connection, maybe."
He studies me for a long moment, calculating, measuring, deciding whether to report this to Father. Then his phone rings, shrill in the tense silence.
He pulls it from his pocket, frowning at the screen. "Yes?" His expression darkens as he listens. "I'll be right there." He pins me with a hard stare. "Back to your room, Miss Faulks."
I nod meekly, slipping past him. My legs feel like jelly as I hurry down the hall, expecting him to call me back at any moment. To ask what I was really doing. To notice something out of place.
Only when I'm safely behind my locked door do I allow myself to breathe.
I press my back against the door, sliding down to sit on the floor. My whole body shakes with adrenaline and grief and something that might be hope.
I know the truth now. At least part of it.
My grandmother loved deeply and chose duty, and it killed her. Made her into a shadow. A cautionary tale I'm supposed to learn from.
But I'm learning the wrong lesson, aren't I?
I'm not supposed to see that choosing duty destroyed her. I'm supposed to see that duty matters more than love. That family expectations matter more than personal happiness. That women like us don't get to choose—we surrender.
Except I'm done surrendering.
Tomorrow, I'll find a way back to those letters. I'll piece together the rest of the story. I'll figure out how that ruby necklace fits into this tragedy, why Father is so desperate to keep it hidden.
And then I'll make my choice. Not the choice my grandmother made. Not the choice Father demands.
My choice.