Page 130 of What You left in Me

God, I missed her.That’s the first thing I think when the gates of the estate come into view, those smug, iron monstrosities that have seen more scandal than most tabloids.

A week.

Seven fucking days since I walked out of this house and left Ariane in a wake of broken glass and questions nobody had answers to. I told myself I was handling business in New York, meetings, calls, and the usual bullshit that keeps my name stitched on power, but that wasn’t the full story. I left because I had to find the woman who started it all.

Eleanor Wagner.

The elegant fucking executioner.

It was raining when I found her.

She was sitting at a bus terminal on the edge of Providence, looking smaller than I remembered, thinner too, like guilt was finally chewing through her bones. Still, she was dressed like she had a board meeting with God himself. Pressed slacks and the faint gleam of lipstick like armor.

I parked across the street and just watched her for a minute. Trying to feel something other than the metallic taste of old rage. The last time I saw her, she was in that dining room pretending not to be a murderer. Now, she looked like an aging actress rehearsing for a role no one believed in anymore. I could kill her right now and get this over with. Murder for a murder. But for her that would be mercy. I’ll take away the things she loves the most – money and power.

When I finally walked up, she saw me immediately. She adjusted her bag and said, “I thought you’d find me sooner.”

“Traffic,” I said flatly.

“Ah. The eternal excuse.” Her mouth twitched into something that might’ve been a smile if it weren’t for the fear underneath. “So, what happens now? Do I die in some poetic accident too?”

I ignored the bait. “You’re getting on that bus.”

“Am I?”

I pulled out the envelope, thick, unmarked, and full of what it cost to disappear quietly. “This should be enough to sustain you for the next few months. Well, that’s if you’re careful. Leave. Go anywhere that isn’t here.”

She stared at it, then at me. “You’re paying me off?”

“No,” I said. “I’m paying you out. You don’t get to haunt this place anymore. You don’t get to touch Dad, or Ariane, or the fucking shadow of my mother ever again.”

She looked almost amused. “You could’ve sent the police. You have proof.”

I took a step closer. “Ariane still calls you Mom. I won’t destroy her with handcuffs on your wrists.”

That one landed. Her lips parted, but she said nothing. Just looked at me like she didn’t know whether to thank me or slap me.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. “I love her, you know.”

“Yourself?” I asked, coldly.

“No. Ariane.”

“Of course you do. But that’s not enough.”

I shoved the envelope into her bag. “The bus leaves in five minutes. Don’t miss it.”

She stood, slow, smoothing the front of her blouse. Her hands were trembling. Anyone would pity her if they saw her like this. What nobody would know is that she was a murdered behind all that shine and makeup.

The bus approached and as she walked toward the bus, she turned, the way people do when they want to matter. “Take care of her,” she said.

I didn’t answer. Because fuck her. And because I already was.

That was four days ago.

Now I’m back, and the house looks like it’s waiting for me. The gravel crunches under my tires, and all I can think about is the sound Ariane made when I told her the truth, not the truth about Eleanor, her mother. She loved and respected her despite everything. Did I ruin her? Maybe that’s all I can do but letting go of her isn’t an option, so I’ll make sure I fix what I’ve ruined.

A part of her will hate me forever, and I can live with that. But I know she can’t live without me either.