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I’m lonely, yes... but I’m also convenient for you.
You know how much that makes me smile.
Being yours. Something to distract you from your responsibilities. From how cruel life must be in that cold, loveless house, where you said all the money in the world can’t buy you any joy.
Oh, I can tell when your smiles are false. When you turn on the charm for everyone else, playing the part of the dearly respected man for the public.
I’m not fooling myself.
I’m just the only one who understands how lonely, how sad you truly are. It’s enough for me to believe you love me right now.
Enough for you to believe you love our beautiful little girl and the child growing in me right now.
Will you come tonight? I don’t dare send the ultrasound, just in caseshestumbles on it. This letter is damning enough, but there’s a little bit of a thrill in the risk, isn’t there?
It’s a girl, beloved.
Another girl.
Perhaps I’ll name her for one of Shakespeare’s ladies, too.
Hoping to see you tonight,
-Your angel
What the fuckam I reading?
I numbly scan the pages of the first letter again.
Something in the back of my mind screams like a startled coyote.
Call it an instinct that’s trying to make me look at what’s right in front of my dumb fool face. Only, everything else shuts the fuck down and refuses to acknowledge the terrible truth.
You already know what this means.
It’s veiled, yes, but it’s not hard to decode.
This is a letter from Angela Sanderson to Montero fucking Arrendell.
After the birth of her first daughter, while she was pregnant with her second, and—
Oh fuck.
Oh fuck, oh shit, ohdamn.
I shove my knuckles against my mouth, barely stopping my fingers from clutching violently at the pages and crumpling them into dust.
Angela Sanderson had an affair with Montero.
A long-running arrangement, from the sounds of it.
Ophelia. Rosalind.
Montero’s daughters.
They’re both Arrendells.
Which means Ros is about to marry her ownhalf brother.
