Chapter 53 Mallory Plantation—Remy #2
Skye gasped, a sound of fear that tightened Remy’s chest. His urge to grab her and run—to shield her from this temporal paradox—surged through him. He shifted closer.
Kenzie continued, “Skye’s parents will have another Skye in Inverness in the 1970s. There can’t be two of her. It’ll be like Charlotte and Jack all over again.”
“This is different,” David argued.
Skye’s eyes darted between David and Kenzie. “What happened to Charlotte and Jack?”
“Jack and Charlotte grew up here on Mallory Plantation, but when Jack died in disgrace in 1865, the Union Army burned down the plantation, and the Mallory name was mud—a stain on history. That was the family history Charlotte grew up with.”
Kenzie continued, “When she discovered what happened to Jack, she went back in time to save him from the hangman’s noose, taking her family history with her.
But for Jack, sitting in a damp jail cell as an accused conspirator, he was still the son of senators living on the plantation.
That was his reality. By saving his life, he salvaged the Mallory name, but Charlotte’s history—her entire world—didn’t change to match. ”
“I don’t understand any of that,” Skye said, her voice trembling.
“Most people don’t,” Remy grumbled.
“But what does any of this have to do with me?”
“When Jack survived that noose,” David explained softly, “they returned to his life on Mallory Plantation, to his timeline. Charlotte’s version of reality, her history, simply ceased to exist. Skye had a life in the early 1900s.
We can’t give her another one in the 1970s.
The repercussions could be catastrophic for her. ”
“Could I… disappear?” Skye whispered.
“We don’t know,” Kenzie replied, the uncertainty a heavy weight in the air.
“What about saving Alistair?” Rick asked.
“Saving him doesn’t change Skye’s existence. If his car plunges into Lake Michigan, we can pull him from the wreckage. The police will drag the water for his body, but never find it,” Braham said.
“If we tear Alistair from his time and bring him here, and he learns we could have recovered them the moment they arrived in New York City, and we chose not to—how do you think he’ll feel?” Remy asked.
“Mad as hell, and rightly so. There’s no win-win here,” Penny said.
“Yes, there is,” Kenzie insisted, her gaze intense, pinning them all in place. “Our primary goal is to protect Skye. The brooch pulled Remy to her. We can’t risk a ripple that might alter that connection.”
“What about my mother?” Skye asked, with a flicker of hope in her eyes. “With the new cancer treatments, doctors could save her life.”
“It’s also possible,” David said gently, the voice of reason, “that she could go through several years of painful reconstruction, radiation, and chemotherapy, and still not survive.”
“I couldn’t do that to her. But can’t we rescue my parents before my mother gets sick?”
“Then what becomes of you?” Kenzie asked, her brow furrowed with a new thorny complication. “You’re probably seventeen or eighteen. Your parents would never leave you behind. And they certainly wouldn’t leave you there for a decade before Remy appears.”
“This is too confusing,” Skye cried out, the frustration living in her voice.
“I don’t understand it. All I know is that I can’t save one of my parents and not the other.
” She pushed her chair back and stomped across the floor, wrenched the door open with desperate strength, and slammed it against the wall on her way out.
Remy shoved back from the table with such force that it sent his chair crashing to the floor. Fuck decorum. He rushed after her, a tide of protective anger roaring through him.
“Wait!” Elliott yelled, scrambling for control. “Let’s finish our business. Skye needs time to process. Give her a few minutes.”
Time to process? Had these people lost their fucking minds?
Remy spun around, his finger aimed squarely at them.
“You sabotaged her again!” The accusation was a low, dangerous growl.
“You dangled the possibility of hope—that her parents might reclaim their lives, their future—and then you yanked the rug out from under her. You told her you could save her father, but her mother was a lost cause. What kind of monster makes that kind of choice? Could you?”
He paced, the energy in the room crackling with his fury.
“We’ve spent the last few days convincing Skye that modern cancer advancements could save me.
But bringing her mother forward in time for treatment…
even our medicine probably can’t reach her in time.
Skye is barely finding her footing in this new life, and you just shattered her world. This family has never stooped so low.”
“Remy, breathe,” Elliott intervened, stepping forward, hands open in a placating gesture. “Let’s just talk this through.”
“Talk? What the hell, Elliott? My mind is a war zone. So is Skye’s.
We’re leaving for Houston now. And I don’t want to see a single one of you until the dust settles.
” He slammed the door with a force that rattled the walls.
A second later, the connecting door to the clean room opened. “Skye, wait!”
She stood still, her fingers pressed hard against her temples, her body rigid. “How can they expect me to choose which parent gets to live? I can’t. I won’t.”
He closed the space between them, his voice softening into a raw hush. “You don’t have to.”
“They could destroy my life with this.”
“That’s one thing they won’t do.” Remy pulled her close, his eyes scanning the periphery until something glinted in the corner. Capone’s imposing safe. “Look!”
“At what?”
“The safe,” he said, pulling away slightly, his brow furrowed in disbelief. “The door… It’s ajar.”
“What’s inside?” she asked.
He cautiously pushed the heavy door back on its hinges. They both froze, standing side by side, mouths agape, as the light spilled across the contents.
“Are those gold bars… real?” she asked, her voice thin.
He smiled. “I highly doubt Capone lined his safe with chocolate bars wrapped in gold foil.”
“How much are they worth?”
“Millions,” he breathed.
“Millions?”
“Yep.” A flicker of suspicion sparked in Remy’s mind, tracing back to a conversation with Braham about a contingency plan—using Remy’s account if there weren’t any valuables in the safe.
Were these the gold bars Braham had buried at MacKlenna Farm?
An urge to storm back to the meeting and demand an answer clawed at him, but he suppressed it.
The past didn’t matter—not right now. If they belonged to Braham, Elliott had approved the transfer and ensured reimbursement.
The only treasure in this room was Skye’s peace of mind.
“That means I have money to produce a record,” Skye said, her voice hollowed of all the joy this moment should have held.
Her lack of enthusiasm twisted in Remy’s gut.
He was furious at the family dynamics that had stolen the shimmer from her victory.
He steered her away from the chaos of the other room, back towards their private sanctuary, where the lingering scent of their lovemaking still clung to the air like a sweet promise.
“As soon as we get back from Houston, we can start working on that album,” he said.
She didn’t meet his eyes. “I can’t let it distract me now.”
He reeled her in, capturing her against the solid wall of his chest with a protective strength that stole her breath.
The impact triggered a collision of sensations within him—the vulnerability of needing someone so completely, the relief of finding a safe place, the comfort of her presence, and a tide of pure affection that threatened to consume him.
“That doesn’t mean you can’t think about what songs you want to include,” he countered gently.
“It can wait,” she insisted, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “You’re my only concern right now.”
“I don’t want to take all your bandwidth.”
“What does that even mean?”
“I don’t want to consume every minute.”
He flexed his fingers, digging them into the silk of her blouse, breathing in the scent that was uniquely hers.
He brushed his lips against her neck, lingering on the delicate curve of her jaw.
But more than anything—more than the scent, the taste, the feel—he focused solely on the steady rhythm of her breathing.
The ambient world noise—distant music, the faint laughter of children—receded entirely, fading into nothingness as his universe narrowed to the beat shared between them.
“I love you, Skye Marshall.”
“I love you, Remy Sebastien Benoit.”
Years had passed since the upheaval in his life—the move to Alabama, the struggle to belong.
His mère had promised him every spare moment she had, every ounce of her love, would be his.
It was a promise she kept. She was the force behind his academic success and football glory.
Then, just as the future opened up and the means to repay her sacrifices were finally within his grasp, she slipped away.
That ache was a constant companion. He knew she would have refused the money, but he could have given her a home.
The thought brought him back to the present.
He needed to ask Charlotte for the names of her architect and contractor.
He and Skye deserved a home of their own, and there was no reason to wait.