Page 73 of State of Ruin

And if I want my letters to be a true abdication of control, a true transfer of power, then I’d sure as hell better make certain that they bear the ultimate guarantee of authenticity.

The Voss seal.

I open the top drawer, pull out a sheaf of Fairwater-headed notepaper, slide my trusty Montblanc out of my inner blazer pocket, and begin to write.

And write.

And write.

At some point, the study door opens, and I look up dazedly. It’s only Seb.

“You’re wanted for Monopoly,” he says.

“Yeah. Tell them I’ll be through in ten.”

“Whatcha doin’? Looks serious.”

“I’m writing to Elyse,” I say. “I’m telling her everything.”

His eyebrows wing up. “Everything?”

“Not everything. Not stories that aren’t mine to tell. But everything I’ve been complicit in, sure.”

“Fair enough.” He shrugs like he, too, has no more fucks to give. “Spill it all.”

“Even Charlotte?”

He pauses, looking somber. “Even Charlotte. I have to do something about that sooner rather than later, anyway. Just wait until I’ve gotten her blessing.”

I give him a nod and go back to my writing.

CHAPTER 38

Elyse

I’m stuffed full of food and gratitude, although not as stuffed as I suspect Fleur is. I keep looking over at her, wondering if and when she’ll throw up, thanks to her sweet potato casserole overload.

I knew those marshmallows would go down well.

Eventually, I manage to make my way off the sofa and into the kitchen so I can set the teakettle on the stovetop. What our collective digestive tracts need right now is a soothing cup of tilleul, the lime blossom infusion I can make from the loose-leaf tea that Sinclair brought me from some super-fancy Parisian tea brand.

It’s absolutely delicious. It’s the taste of my childhood. And I hate that I’ve thought of him, not my mom, whenever I’ve taken a sip this past week.

We are all slumped on the couch and the floor and on kitchen chairs when the doorbell rings. It’s past ten, and Reggie and Gloria have just left with a humungous portion of foil-wrapped turkey breast. Everyone looks around dopily. Even the dog has had way too much turkey to care who’s at the door right now. I blow out a breath of effort as I haul myself off the couch once again.

Standing on our porch is a courier dressed in motorcycle leathers, his helmet visor pulled up. He’s holding an envelope. “Delivery for Ms. Elyse Ward,” he says.

“That’s me,” I say, frowning. I have no idea what this could be—until he hands it to me, that is, and I turn it over.

On the back of the envelope is a red wax seal whose V-shaped imprint bears the same pattern that Sinclair pressed to the back of my hand that day in the study at Fairwater. Right before he⁠—

Anyways.

Shit.

I stare at it in horror, his words ringing in my ears:

You’re Voss property now. I own you.