39. Elyse
Elyse
My darling Elyse,
I thought I would go back to the city tonight, but I find I don’t want to. I might stay on the island a few days longer. My family is all leaving today, thank fuck. Mom has a lot less interest in being here when it’s not sailing weather.
But I want to stay.
I want to remember every moment of being at The Lindens with you, in the best possible way.
And I want to remember every sin my family and I have committed at Fairwater, in the worst possible way.
Somehow, it feels important to stay right here, at the scene of the crime, while I write you.
And each night, I’ll sleep at The Lindens and wish that my housekeeper hadn’t changed my sheets since our weekend together.
I don’t worry that the city would let me forget about you. There’s no fear of that, not for a single second. But I do worry that its distractions would reabsorb me into the man I have been until now, and I need a little space from that life.
Who am I kidding? I need a little space from that guy.
Anyway, as Maria von Trapp would advise, I should probably start at the beginning of it all. (Is my procrastination technique softening you up at all? Can I be truly as bad as I seem if I adore The Sound of Music? [I’m afraid of your answer.])
When I said yesterday that I “did some digging,” that was a way of softening my own crimes. Here is exactly what I did, so you know what kind of man I am (not that you don’t already):
- I called in my family’s longtime fixer
- I had him legally obtain the police report for your sister’s accident
- I had him illegally obtain her medical records and your bank statements
While I’m confessing, the worst part for you might not be hearing how I intentionally violated your privacy but hearing that I’m not sorry.
I feel bad about it, sure, but not bad enough.
I’m sorry to say that I was reared on the idea of the ends justifying the means, and, in this case, I’d do it again.
(Hypothetically. I won’t do it again. You have my word.) I needed to know what you were dealing with.
I needed to know the sheer magnitude of how I’d betrayed you so I could wallow in it and force myself to stare at it in all its bloodied mess.
But the main question I’ve been asking myself is why I needed to see all that context to feel truly sorry.
Why did you need to be on the verge of bankruptcy for me to finally understand that I shouldn’t have taken that modeling campaign away from you?
Even if you had been the highest-paid supermodel in the world, what I did was wrong.
So why couldn’t I compute the enormity of my betrayal without any context at all?
Which is exactly the question I asked my therapist this morning. I told her that the central issue I wanted to resolve was why I pulled that campaign in the first place and why I wouldn’t allow myself to accept how badly I was at fault.
And she said, “Whoa, cowboy.” Or a more technical version of that.
She said my behavior toward you—and Vanessa—isn’t the issue but more a symptom of my (apparently extensive) issues.
I’m pretty sure she’s saying I’m a psychological can of worms. But I’m going to see her every single day from here on out until I’ve gotten to the bottom of that fucking can, no matter how painful it is. I can promise you that, my darling.
I’m not trying to push some “poor little rich boy” narrative on you here. I just want to tell you that I’m digging. I’m digging hard—but this time, I’m digging up my own shit rather than disrespecting your family’s privacy.
I hope you are enjoying your Black Friday. I hope your belly is filled with food and love and laughter. I miss you so much that I can’t breathe, but it makes me happy to know you are surrounded by people who love you.
More tomorrow.
Yours always,
Sinclair
I sit, hunched over, on my bed, and read his letter—slowly, because I’m not used to reading handwriting these days, even if his cursive is perfect.
When I get to the line about his illegally getting his hands on my and my sister’s private information, I have to put the letter down.
I stand up and pace. I’m shaking with anger.
What the fuck did he think he was doing, stealing confidential documents? Could he be more fucking entitled?
Furious, I grab the letter again and start reading.
Jeez, I think his admission that he’s not sorry is even worse.
Asshole. Honestly, I think he’s hit the spot with his big question.
What the hell is wrong with him, that it took having my family’s most private data laid bare to him for him to understand that what he’d done was plain wrong?
When his first letter arrived last night, I was honestly more relieved than anything else: relieved that it wasn’t some kind of legal bullying.
But when the relief wore off, I couldn’t help but notice that the letter didn’t say anything new.
Not really. Not except releasing me from the NDA like he said he would and disclosing that he knew about our medical debt.
And now I know why.
Yesterday’s letter felt like a flex—I can still reach you.
What’s next for him if I turn his courier away?
Carrier pigeon? But as I reread this afternoon’s letter, I’m struck by a few things that I really don’t want to be struck by.
His tone sounds so warm. So fond. So… adoring. And he also sounds looser.
Where’s the guy who gaslit Vanessa and then tried to do literally the same thing to my face?
Where’s the guy who had me sign an NDA before he even got me in a room with him?
Because this guy reads as looser—and, honestly, even a little unhinged.
It sounds like Sinclair Voss has finally run out of fucks to give.
And that makes me feel… sad. Or, at the very least, a little conflicted.
He’s handed me a freaking loaded gun, for God’s sake.
He’s admitted to illegal acts, in writing, on headed notepaper, and he’s put the Voss official seal to it.
Either he’s totally lost it and he has no clue what he’s doing…
or he knows exactly what he’s doing, and he no longer gives a shit.
What the hell is a girl supposed to do with all that?
“Another one, huh?” Dad says as I come back into the living room, having tucked the letter safely under my mattress. He’s watching TV with Fleur tucked in by his side while Sylvie shops online for Fleur’s Christmas presents in the Black Friday sales.
I screw up my face as my sister watches me curiously. “Yeah.” I’d love to get her opinion on the letters, but I can’t. Not when Sinclair referenced having paid me for sex in the first one.
She jerks her head toward the window. “The guy is still outside.” I told him not to hang around, but he’s insisted, given it’s only late afternoon. Sinclair has been a busy bee today if his messenger has ridden all the way from Long Island already.
For a tiny moment, I allow myself to imagine Sinclair trudging back over the gravel to The Lindens, his daily letter written in the main house and dispatched to me. Will he pour himself a scotch? Is he eating leftovers? Will he speak to anyone tonight?
Fuck that. I force my brain to switch back to the letter under my mattress and the guy outside.
Sinclair thinks he’s capable of radical honesty?
I wonder what he’d do if I scrawled a reply that says, If you want me to read the next one, you’d better fess up about that donation.
Was it you? After all, he’s just admitted that he knows exactly how much we owe.
Owed. That cannot be a coincidence. And it’s so tempting to engage, if only to get some clarity.
To take advantage of this totally uncharacteristic desire he seems to have to come clean about his shit.
In the end, I go outside ten minutes later. “There’s no reply,” I tell the messenger. “But take these. You must be freezing.” I hand him a foil-wrapped slice of Glo’s cherry pie—leftovers from yesterday—and a paper cup of hot coffee.
Then I give him a little nod and head back inside to my people.