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My father will be able to return to Cabot Estate instead of finding out it has been sold off. He’ll be able to rebuild his empire. His son won’t end up in a cell beside him. All those things are possible because I signed my name at the bottom of that contract.
Yes, it cost me my innocence and I’m no longer the little girl I used to be, but I had to grow up at some point.
I’m a Cabot. I won’t forget that, no matter how many times I fall on my knees for the devil.
“You’re awake.” Devlin sat up and looked over at me.
“Yes, Master.” I smiled and closed my eyes when he reached over to brush his hand against my face.
“I will have to leave soon to handle some business.” He exhaled sharply. “Are you going to be okay after yesterday?”
“I feel better now that I’ve had time to process it.” I nodded. “I understand why my father was upset, but at the same time, I believe he’ll understand once he’s free.”
I hope.
“Good.” Devlin pulled his hand back and smiled.
“Could I—make a request?” I turned over on my side.
“You can make it.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “I don’t know that I will grant it—but I’ll try.”
“There were some things at Cabot Estate—heirlooms mostly. A lot was taken when the Estate was seized, but I would like to preserve anything I can.” I sighed. “I don’t want them to just sit there…”
“I could have them brought here.” Devlin nodded. “I’ll make the arrangements before I leave for work.”
“Thank you.” I smiled and moved closer, putting my head against his chest.
I’m curious to know what is in my mother’s diaries. I wonder if my father has read them…
We lay there in bed as long as we could. Devlin went to shower and get ready for work. After he returned and got dressed, I took a bath—relaxing in the warm water. My meal was prepared when I got downstairs.
I spent most of the day in my room, reading and trying to keep myself entertained until Belle came upstairs to let me know that some boxes had been delivered from Cabot Estate. I thanked her, and then headed downstairs to make sure the movers had packed everything appropriately.
Hopefully they didn’t break anything that survived the initial search by those assholes who stepped on my mother’s picture.
I looked through the boxes that had arrived and was pleased to see that the movers had been cautious with everything. There was no reason to start unpacking them—I hoped that I could have it sent back to Cabot Estate once my father was free from prison. Still, I couldn’t help getting lost in a few of the memories. After looking around for a few minutes, I found the box I was looking for—the one from the attic.
My father kept some of my mother’s things in the basement. My sister took a lot of them when she moved out and I had been able to retrieve a few trinkets that I kept in my room. I had no idea that some of her stuff was in the attic—it seemed intentional to separate my mother’s diaries from the rest of her things. That was part of what made me curious.
When I was younger, I found a few letters that my mother wrote to my father. He kept them in the desk in his study and while I shouldn’t have been snooping—I couldn’t resist reading her words. The handwriting in the diaries definitely belonged to my mother. I had memorized it—even tried to copy it when I was younger. No matter how much I tried, my own handwriting was never that beautiful.
I flipped through the first journal and realized that it was from when my mother was a teenager—before she married my father.
Diary of Brynne Davenport - January 1, 1989
I met someone last night.
I probably shouldn’t have flirted with him, but I just couldn’t resist. He’s older but he’s so—distinguished. He’s not like the boys at school that only seem to be interested in one thing and call you a stuck-up bitch if you’re not willing to—perform.
Unfortunately, the man I met didn’t seem to realize that I was trying to flirt with him. He just seemed to be tolerating the annoying teenager who wouldn’t leave him alone at my father’s New Year’s Eve party. Still—it was fun to put on a beautiful dress and pretend that I belonged in that world.
One day I will.
One day, men like him will see me as something other than my father’s youngest daughter. I am Brynne Davenport, and one day, I’ll be Queen of the Ball.
I smiled when I read my mother’s words. She would have seventeen when she wrote them. It was hard to envision her as a teenage girl. She looked so radiant in the photographs I had. The letters she wrote my father were eloquent and sounded like poetry, while the journal entries read like something I would have written myself—about Devlin.
