Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
RAVEN
T he late evening sun filters weakly through the curtains, casting long, golden streaks across the floor as I fold the last of my clothes. The closet is practically empty now—just a few hangers swinging like lonely skeletons on the rail. My hands pause over a faded hoodie, the fabric soft and worn, holding more memories than I’d like to admit. It’s ridiculous how something as simple as an old sweater can feel like a thread to a past life, one that now seems impossibly far away.
Sunny, my best friend’s voice crackles over the speakerphone, grounding me back in the present.
“I’m just saying,” she says, her tone light but deliberate, “you have to talk to Earl. He used to be so easy to talk to. Friendly, even. He can’t have changed that much.”
Easy to talk to? Friendly? Not anymore. The man I married looks like Earl, but he is a stranger.
“I don’t know, Sunny,” I say, shaking my head as I shove the hoodie into the bag. “He’s... different. Colder, harder. It’s like he’s carrying something, something dark, and I don’t know what it is. But one thing is for sure he is very angry with me.”
“With you? Why? He was the one who ghosted you and vanished off the face of the earth.”
I frown. “I know.”
“You have to ask him about it,” Sunny says firmly. Her voice crackles slightly over the speakerphone, but her conviction is loud and clear. “I know it looks like an unsolvable mess, but you have to try. What worries me is that you’re moving to Charles’s former home. It’s so weird. This entire thing feels like some sort of prank, and I keep waiting for the guys with the cameras to jump out.”
This makes me smile despite myself. “Same here, but I’m willing to play along, as long as my father gets his treatment.”
“I do think, though, that Earl came back for you. Why else would he come back to this shitty town when he is done well for himself? And why else would he snatch you away from Charles at the altar like that? There’s something there. I’m convinced he’s still in love with you. Just … talk to him, okay? Find out what’s going on in that thick head of his. He used to be so kind, but from all the wild talk flying around town, anyone would think you married the devil himself. For what it’s worth, I think he looks even more dreamy than he did before. And he was already a ten out of ten then.”
“Raven?” My mom’s voice cuts into Sunny’s monologue. I glance over my shoulder to see her standing in the doorway, worry etched into her face. Her hair is pulled back, and she’s wearing that tired look she gets when something is weighing on her mind.
“Gotta go, Sunny,” I say quickly and end the call. I turn to face my mom, brushing stray strands of hair out of my eyes.
She steps into the room, her gaze flicking to the half-packed bag on the bed. “Are you sure about this?” she asks, her voice heavy with concern. “Your father... he feels terrible about all of this. He’s worried.”
“Yes, I’m sure, Mom,” I say, though my voice trembles under the weight of the lie. I force myself to meet her eyes, straightening my shoulders in an attempt to seem confident. “We’ve been... talking,” I add quickly, glancing away as if that could make the lie less obvious. “Before today. I know the wedding was a bit of a scene, but things were always good between us. We understand each other and we’ll work it out somehow.”
The words taste sour as they leave my mouth, but I can’t bring myself to admit the truth—that I am just as shocked as everyone else is.
My mom doesn’t look convinced. She steps closer and lowers herself onto the edge of the bed. “And do you know why he disappeared all those years ago?” she asks gently, folding her hands in her lap.
I swallow hard and under the guise of grabbing another sweater from the closet, look away. “Issues with his dad, I think,” I mumble, forcing nonchalance into my tone. “But the main thing is he’s back now.”
A thick unnatural silence stretches between us. When I finally look back at her, she’s studying me, her expression unreadable.
“I always liked Earl, but he just seemed so different … so furious,” she says.
“It’ll be okay, Mom. I promise. Earl was once my world, my anchor and nothing has changed.”
She nods, stands, and places a hand briefly on my shoulder, a warm, fleeting touch. “The reason I came here is to tell you that a sleek black town car is parked outside, the kind you see in movies or TV shows, with a driver standing beside it in a crisp suit.”
My eyes widen. “Thanks, Mom. Everything will be fine. You’ll see.”
“Just... take care of yourself, okay? And always remember, we’re always here for you. No matter what happens you have a home here.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I blurt out before hugging her tightly.
I stand very still and watch her leave my room, but the moment she’s gone, the composure I’ve been holding onto crumbles. My hands shake as I stuff the last few items into the bag, my mind racing.
Why did Earl leave? Why did he marry me if he hates me? And how am I supposed to make this work with someone who is convinced I’m a gold digger?
I shove the zipper closed and heave the bag off the bed, my heart pounding. There’s no time to dwell on it now. I need to get to Thornfield Hall.
The rain has stopped and when I step outside, the elderly chauffeur who was leaning against the car, straightens and tips his cap in an oddly old-fashioned gesture.
“Mrs. Jackson?” he asks, his voice polite, professional.
“Uh... yes.”
He opens the back door with a practiced motion. “Mr. Jackson asked me to pick you up and take you to Thornfield Hall.”
I hesitate, gripping the strap of my bag tightly. The luxury, the formalities—it’s all so far removed from the world we grew up in. From the trailer park. From the Earl I thought I knew.
As I slide into the car, sinking into the soft leather seat, I can’t help but wonder: How did he come upon all this wealth? And what the hell happens next to us? The door closes and I’m ensconced in a gently perfumed, luxurious interior.
The journey to Charles’s house feels both familiar and alien, like stepping into a memory that doesn’t quite fit anymore. The town, with its tree-lined streets and weathered storefronts, hasn’t changed much. The lake shimmers in the distance, surrounded by sprawling gardens, but now, everything feels surreal, like I’m watching someone else’s life unfold.
I grip the handle of the car door tighter as the car turns into the driveway of the sprawling estate. My pulse has quickened and the nerves I’ve tried to suppress bubble up all at once as the house looms ahead. It’s grand and imposing, with a pristine stone facade, wide wraparound porch, and manicured gardens that seem to stretch endlessly towards the lake. When I was a young girl living in poverty, I used to envy people living in such grandeur, but those days are gone. Now I see such massive mansions as glamorous prisons. The people who live in them are never truly happy. I wonder again how Earl came to be rich enough to buy this place.
The car comes to a smooth halt, gravel crunching softly under the tires. I hesitate for a moment, staring out at the house. Is this going to be my prison where I will never be happy? The chauffeur opens my door, his polite, “Mrs. Jackson” shaking me from my daze. The title feels strange, but foreign. Didn’t I stand in front of the mirror a lifetime ago and practice saying it?
I nod and step out, clutching my purse tightly. The air smells of freshly cut grass and blooming flowers, but it does little to ease the nerves coiled tight in my stomach. None of this feels real.
I don’t see Earl anywhere, and that unsettles me more than I care to admit. I glance back at the sleek black town car parked behind mine. Is that his?
Nora, the Belafonte’s old housekeeper appears before I can spiral further, her warm smile a great comfort.
“Raven! Oh, my goodness, I’m so glad to see you!” she exclaims, her hands clasped in front of her as she approaches.
“Hi, Nora,” I greet. I’ve always liked Nora. She’s always been kind to me whenever I’ve come around. Her presence feels familiar and grounding, even as everything else feels unmoored.
“You look wonderful, Mrs. Jackson,” she says, her pale blue gaze sweeping over me. There are questions in her eyes, but she’s too well trained by Charles’s mother to ever voice them. “I’m sure you must be exhausted with the day you’ve had. I’ve made a pot of tea for you and your favorite blueberry pie.”
Nora’s warm concern takes me off guard, and for a moment, I don’t know how to answer. “Thank you, Nora. I don’t think I can eat just yet. I’m a little nervous, I think.”
“Well, that’s to be expected,” she says with a kind smile. “But don’t you worry. The pie will keep. We’ll take care of you here.” She gestures toward the house, inviting me to follow her inside.
Walking through the front door feels like crossing some invisible threshold. The grand entryway is exactly as it was on my last visit, so are the gleaming hardwood floors, and the lofty ceilings, but the traditional chandelier I used to marvel at is gone. In its place hangs the most exquisitely sophisticated, massive white vine chandelier. I gasp at its ethereal beauty and once more feel a knot tightening in my chest. What did he do to get this kind of wealth? The thought doesn’t sit right.
“The staff wanted to congratulate you in person,” Nora says cheerfully, leading me further inside.
The other staff members stand in a polite line and convey their best wishes. They do so warmly enough, though I catch a few curious glances exchanged when they think I’m not looking. I can’t blame them. What happened in the church was bizarre, to say the least and I probably seem as out of place as I feel.
The house is bustling with activity, movers hauling boxes out through the front doors as others carry Earl’s things inside. The air hums with the sound of footsteps, shuffling cardboard, and muffled conversations.
Nora, noticing my distracted gaze, chuckles softly. “It’s quite the scene today, isn’t it? The movers are finishing up with the Belafonte’s belongings. They should be out shortly.” I turn towards her and she is watching me with her wise old eyes. “You belong here. You always have.”
“What do you mean?”
She shrugs. “Houses are like dogs. You can never get one that is not meant for you.”
“Oh.”
Not knowing what to say I turn away, and through one of the long windows, watch a man carefully maneuver a box marked FRAGILE into the back of a long mover’s lorry. It’s surreal, to see the status symbols of Charles’s family’s life packed away and driven off. The house feels like it’s in flux, caught between what it was and what it’s about to become.
I wonder if I will see him in the house. Somehow, I don’t expect to, but the thought still makes me nervous. He thinks of me as a gold digger, and my behavior today must have confirmed his opinion. I’ve always been clear and straightforward with everyone; in fact, it’s always been everyone else who hasn’t been straight with me. I told Charles I wasn’t in love with him. All I wanted from him was a loan so I could pay for my father’s medical bills, instead he manipulated me into marrying him. What did he think would happen when I found out he had no means to help save my father’s life?
My thoughts once again go to Earl. Once, I loved him so much that I nearly went crazy after his disappearance. Sometimes I think I have never recovered from it. That hole is still gaping in my chest. I’ve wondered so many times what I would do if I ever saw him again, and now that I have I cannot believe he’s making me feel like I’m the one who was in the wrong. Like I’m the one who has something to be sorry for when he is the one who broke my heart into a million pieces.
Nora gestures toward the grand staircase. “Once things settle down, I’ll take you on a proper tour. This house has a rich history. You’ll want to get to know it.”
The sound of heels clicking against the polished floors draws my attention. I look up to see Charles’s mother descending the staircase, her posture as proud and regal as ever, her expression carved from stone. She looks every bit the picture of class and authority, her tailored dress immaculate, her chin tilted just high enough to make her disdain known.
When her eyes meet mine, they darken with something close to hatred. She pauses on the last step, her gaze sweeping over me. I’m an invader in her domain.
“Raven,” she says, her voice clipped, each syllable dripping with venom. “Enjoying yourself, are you?”
I force myself to stay composed, even as my chest tightens. “Mrs. Belafonte,” I reply, keeping my tone even. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Her lips curl into a sneer. “Well, well, well. Taken to the high life like a duck to water, I see. I always knew you would destroy my son, and you have, but be very careful, my dear. You have married a monster who detests you. I suggest you start your tour from the Music Room.”
I glance at the movers coming down behind her, their arms laden with ornate lamps and hastily wrapped portraits. Her belongings. Her life. Everything she’s built here is being taken away piece by piece. But I feel no pity in my heart. Not for her.
“Safe travels,” I murmur and she sails past me, her expensive perfume lingering in her wake like a challenge.
I can’t help but exhale a quiet breath of relief as she disappears through the front doors. The tension in the room shifts, like a storm that’s finally passed.
Nora places a comforting hand on my arm, her smile warm but knowing. “Don’t let her get to you, dear. The house is yours now.”
I smile weakly, though the weight of her words settles heavily on my shoulders. My house. My life. No. This is not my house. It is Earl’s. I desperately want to ask Nora to take me to the Music Room first, but I don’t want to give any importance to her suggestion.
Nora continues the tour, her voice upbeat as she gestures toward various rooms and describes their functions. I try to focus on her words, but my thoughts are scattered. Every creak of the floorboards, every faint sound of the movers echoes too loudly in my ears. The house, with its vast hallways and ornate decor, feels both suffocating and empty. And the dread of what I will find in the Music Room hangs over me.
“I think you’ve probably already been in here,” Nora says, her voice suddenly nervous, as she pushes open a pair of double doors, “but just in case you haven’t, this is the music room.”
I haven’t. Charles’s mother never let me go beyond the living room or the dining room. She never wanted me to feel like I belonged or was part of the family. I step inside the room. It is bathed in soft evening light slanting in through towering windows. A brand new black grand piano gleams in the almost empty room. The walls still bear the marks of all the paintings that once hung on them. But there is one painting that has recently been mounted over the fireplace. A life-size painting that stops me in my tracks. It can’t be. I gasp in disbelief.
It is.
It is a portrait of me!
And yet it’s not me. The crowned woman in the painting is seated on a gold throne. She is wearing a purple silk dress which exposes most of her breasts. Her posture is loose, her legs slightly open so some of the insides of her thighs are exposed, and her chin tilted in a flirtatious come-hither angle, but her eyes are hard and cold. She is decked in jewelry and gold coins drip carelessly from both her hands. She is undoubtedly a whore. A vulgar creature.
A gold digger.
My pulse pounds in my ears, and a hot flush of embarrassment spreads through me. I can’t look away. Nora senses my reaction. She stands awkwardly to the side, her eyes darting between me and the lurid portrait. I can feel her unease. She is waiting for me to say something, do something.
“What... what is this?” My voice trembles.
Nora clears her throat uncomfortably. “It’s... just a painting. Mr. Jackson had it commissioned. The artist is quite famous, I believe. The men moved it in earlier.”
I feel my stomach twist, but I keep my expression steady, carefully neutral.
“Well, it’s interesting,” I say lightly and step closer to the enormous portrait as if I were admiring the brushstrokes. Inside, my thoughts are spinning, a storm I can barely contain.
“Art is never beautiful anymore. All art has to shock these days,” Nora says quickly. The relief in her voice is palpable.
Who does something like this? My face stares back at me from the gold throne, cold and unrecognizable. The weight of the crown on my head in the painting seems to mock me, as though daring me to claim a role I never asked for. My jaw tightens, but I force a polite smile, nodding as if it’s nothing at all.
Nora folds her hands anxiously in front of her. “Mr. Jackson told us all we could keep our jobs,” she says, almost as if she’s trying to reassure herself, but I catch the faintest tremor in her voice, the unease she’s trying to hide. “He said nothing would change except for the ownership. It was. .. kind of him. I think he’s a kind man. Underneath it all.”
Kind. Her words settle awkwardly in the room. I glance at her from the corner of my eye. “That’s good to hear,” I reply with a small smile.
“Shall we continue with the tour, then?” she asks brightly, and I give her a small nod.
She leads me out of the music room, and I follow, my heart still pounding in my chest. The image of that cold and ugly version of myself stays lodged in my mind, impossible to shake.
We move through the rest of the house, Nora explaining its many features—the sitting room, the library, the garden view from the conservatory where breakfast will be served tomorrow morning. I make polite noises of acknowledgment, barely listening. Every corner of this house feels too large, too grand, like it belongs to someone else entirely.
Finally, she stops in front of a door near the end of the hallway on the first floor. “Mr. Jackson says this is your room,” she says, pushing the door open with a small flourish.
I step inside and immediately notice what it isn’t: the master bedroom. The space is lovely, with soft cream walls and a bed dressed in pale blue linens, but it’s not where I imagined I’d be staying as the supposed mistress of the house. The realization lands like a quiet blow. Another humiliation. I push down the sting of it.
“Very nice,” I say, my voice carefully even. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Nora replies with a smile. “Well, I’ll be downstairs. I’ll send up a tray with refreshments, but please ring if you require anything else.”
“Thank you, Nora.”
She seems to want to say more, but instead, she nods and excuses herself, leaving me alone.
I want to call him, to confront him, to demand answers, but I don’t even have his number. All I have are the old text messages on my phone, the ones I’ve read and reread so many times the words are seared into my memory.
I scroll through them now, my thumb lingering over the screen. Each message feels like a ghost, haunting me with fragments of who we used to be.
Then I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the room. It’s strange, feeling both relief and unease at the same time. Relief that I don’t have to immediately share a room with Earl, but unease at the strangeness of my situation. He couldn’t even bear to kiss me in the church. This marriage isn’t meant to be real. Not in the way marriages are supposed to be.
I remind myself why I’m here. My father is getting the treatment he needs. That’s what matters. Everything else is just noise. I can handle this. I have to.
Lying back against the pillows, I close my eyes, the painted image of myself on that throne flickering in the darkness behind my lids. And then I realize what this marriage is supposed to be.
It is supposed to be revenge.