Instead, he turned the page, his thumb brushing over the jagged handwriting that I had kept hidden in my small room for three long years.

“Read it,” Alexander said, his voice barely a whisper, though it carried to every corner of the silent dining room.

He was looking at me, but he was speaking to the room.

“Read it aloud, Elena.”

I took a step forward, my apron rustling in the quiet.

My fingers trembled slightly as I took the paper from his hand, the familiar scent of dried lavender still clinging to the heavy parchment.

I looked down at the words Eleanor had written in her final days, when her hands were already shaking from the toxins.

“My dearest Alexander,” I read, my voice echoing off the high ceilings.

“If you are reading this, it means our son has chosen the woman he trusts to guide him.”

Vivian let out a sharp, mocking breath, but a glare from Alexander silenced her instantly.

I continued reading, keeping my eyes steady on the page.

“I am writing this because I know my time is short, and I know it is not a natural illness taking me.”