HECTOR LIKED TO TALK about his undeserving, chit of a niece every time they met. He spoke about a spoiled girl who was unappreciative of everything she'd been given. This epithet generously nursed Victoria's ambitions to be Mrs. Whitfield. The current wife didn't appreciate her role, Victoria reasoned, so why shouldn't she take it?

By the time they'd met for the first time in Rose's beloved gardens, Victoria had no problem showing off her prize to Matthew's wife. Let her see what she was too stupid to take for herself. Victoria finally reached her parent's cabin and gently knocked on the door. Her father answered with a smile. "You're home." Victoria forced herself to hug her parents hello and pretend to be friendly, when all she wanted to do was curl up and die. There wasn't much point in keeping up the farce, though. She hardly ever visited her parents, and David and Mary Sill weren't complete fools. They knew something was wrong. Still, they wisely kept conversation away from the subject that pressed their minds, and asked light questions about the weather and the baby. Victoria rubbed her stomach as she wondered about his true father. Hector didn't give a fig about her or the baby, and still, she wondered if he might do his duty. Fat chance.

Victoria had never been completely daft, she had some money stored away in the cabin if something like this were to ever occur,l but living on it would be a far cry from what she'd been accustomed to these past few years. Add to the fact that she wouldn't be able to work until the baby was born, and it was safe to say Victoria was in a real bind.

Her thoughts traveled back to Matthew, and then bitterly to Rose. She had made a mistake, yes. She'd been stupid. But none of this would've ever happened if Matthew hadn't fallen for her. He never would've taken her to visit his god-awful mother if there hadn't been affection between the two. Victoria sank her teeth into her lip so hard there were sweet, coppery drops of blood on her tongue. Rose had ruined her life. "Dinner," David Sill said, interrupting her thoughts. Mary gave a small gasp. Victoria turned her head to the portion of the cabin that occupied the kitchen, where a slaughtered pig lay. Victoria squinted her eyes at the dead animal. It wasn't just any pig, it was the family pet.

"Is that Winston?" Victoria asked. She had named the beast herself when he was just a piglet.

"Yes," her mother whimpered. "Isn't it just horrible?"

"Are you that hard up for money, Father?" Victoria asked. "I could've sent some coin if you wanted pork."

"I didn't kill him for meat, the damn thing ate through half the farm. And it wasn't the first time, either. He had to go."

"He couldn't help it David. He's a pig after all, he just needed a little more training."

"He's been trained since birth," David pointed out. "He knew better. Winston was getting old, anyway. It was time to put him down."

Mary glanced briefly at her daughter, looking for a statement of support. Victoria only briefly regarded her mother before staring back at the slaughtered animal. "He's right mother. Winston ruined the farm. He needed to be punished."

🥀

I hadn't written a poem in ages. That is what came to me one evening as I thumbed through the pages of Temptations of Love. So much had happened since the last time a quill had graced my fingers, it was only right to put those events to paper. I sat down in the downstairs study with a cream sheet of paper in front of me with a quill in my hand ready to write...only to find that I couldn't. Where did I begin? How did I translate my great love to words on a page? I thought about how hideous I felt the first time I removed my veil. My pen slowly moved against the paper as my feelings unfurled.

Belle to beast

Hidden burns to naked wounds

Unloved to adored

The withered rosebud has finally blossomed

There's never been a more beautiful rose

I stared at the stanza with satisfaction. I'd put many feelings to paper about myself, and they all revolved around pity and self-loathing. I'd never dared to give myself any praise till this moment. I'd never called myself beautiful before. I traced a length of scarred flesh along my cheek, my chin, above my left brow, and my nose. "I'm beautiful," I muttered softly to myself. Even despite my battle wounds, my abuse, and self-doubt, I was beautiful. Even despite ill words, negative perceptions, and persistent gossip, I was beautiful. I stared absently at a glass portrait of my mother on my desk, and my reflection stared back. How hadn't I seen it before? The straight, curly lashes framing deep, brown eyes. The full lips and high cheekbones. I was the exact picture of my mother who had been—and still remained—the most beautiful woman in the world. I smiled brightly at my sudden self-realization before frowning. My mother had been the most beautiful woman in the world and someone had taken her away.

Axel House was only an hour away from Ludlow. I passed every second burning hotter with anger. I hadn't had the energy to reflect on his words when he'd said them, or when Leticia pointed out the obvious, but now I was fuming. As my childhood home came into view, my eyes misted with tears. Memories rushed at me all at once—-of mother twirling me about on the front lawn, young me tugging her skirts as she harvested flowers, the both of us waiting on the front steps as my father returned home. I exited the carriage unsteadily, almost tripping on the steps.

"Are you alright, ma'am?" the footman asked.

I nodded in the affirmative, my throat already clogged with emotion. The same housekeeper that attended to the house throughout my childhood answered the door. "Miss Rose," she greeted, with a hint of surprise. "I mean, Mrs. Whitfield. How nice to see you again, ma'am."

I entered the door before she could turn me away. "It's a pleasure to see you too, Cordelia. Tell my uncle I need to see him."

Her eyes flitted awkwardly about the room. "He's indisposed, ma'am."

I knew she didn't want to be responsible for admitting his most despised family member without permission into the house. I liked Cordelia enough to spare her the embarrassment of pressing the issue. I had a good idea of where my uncle was, anyway. Without a second thought, I dashed up the winding staircase to the private bedrooms of Lord and Lady. More specifically, my mother's bedroom. I'd always wondered why he liked he spend his nights brewing here following the death of my father, but now it all made sense. When I opened the door, I found my uncle exactly where I suspected, sprawled on the floor near the foot of the bed, with a decanter between his legs. I eyed the clear liquid with distaste as I recalled the memories that came with his drunken states. Gin was Hector's drink of choice, just as it had been my father's. He eyed me with mean, beady eyes. "What do you want?" he growled.

"Did you kill her?"

Hector laughed, causing a bubble of spittle to form between his lips. I shook my head in disgust. I was used to my father sloppy drunkenness, but not Hector's. He'd always remained composed. "Wouldn't you like to know?" he spat.

"So, after all these years of pathetic anger and cowardice, you cannot even admit it?"

Hector craned his neck. The action, always indicative of an impending slap, did nothing to sway me. "Pathetic?" he asked softly. Hector, sharp as a knife, never spoke softly. The wool in his voice was a warning I had no mind to heed it.

"Pathetic," I repeated. "You murdered a woman in cold blood because she wouldn't love you. A woman who, might I add, was married to your brother. If that's not pathetic, I don't know what is."

Hector tried to stand up to confront me, but failed to push up his own weight, and slapped against the floor. "If you know what's good for you, you'll keep your bitch mouth shut."

I took a brave step closer to him. "If you know what's good for you, you won't touch a hair on my head. I think Matthew made it very clear what will happen if you do."

Hector gnashed his teeth before taking a disgusting swallow of gin straight from the decanter. "I should've killed you instead," he said finally.

My eyes widened slightly. "I'm sorry?"

"She loved you so much—too much."

"A mother can never love their child too much," I interrupted.

"Well, she did. Just look how you turned out to be," he sneered. "I should've killed you then while you were still a child and hurt her the same way she hurt me."

"My God, you're deluded. She didn't hurt you. My mother rejected an offer that was completely beneath her."

"Which hurt me," Hector said. It was the first time I ever detected a hint of fragility in his voice. "No one gets to hurt me. So, I gave her what she deserved." Rage simmered within me, coursing into my veins, flooding my cheeks, and cooking my brain. If my power was one tenth of his, I would've strangled him.

"You..." I could not finish my sentence without breaking off, lest I whimper, and I couldn't give that man the satisfaction of seeing me cry. "You bastard!" I got close enough to where I could smell his sour breath. I grabbed Hector by his collar, pushing his face against mine. "I should have you shot."

Hector flashed his rotting, yellow teeth. "Wouldn't you like that."

"I could. The Whitfield name outmatches Axel tenfold. But, forget that. The chit that you saw me with the day you told me you wanted me to be your slave is actually Princess Lettie. I have the power of the crown behind me, no one would think twice if I had you killed."

"You haven't got the stones," Hector's mouth said. But his angry, embittered eyes told a different story. They were the eyes of rabid dog who couldn't help but rage against the world. Kill me, they dared with a drunken glint. Do it.

"I could kill you," I repeated. "But that would be too easy. You ruined my life. You killed my mother effectively sending my father into a spiral of alcoholism and heartache. He beat me senseless, and when he finally passed, you and the whole Axel lot pounded me with fists and words of worthlessness until I wanted to die. And then you beat me more." I clutched his collar closer. "You threw me away at the first man you could to make your fortune and then plotted to rip me away from him to complete some sick, twisted revenge. You've tortured me my entire life. And now, I will torture you."

Hector smiled sloppily. "And how do you expect to do that?"

I let go of my uncle just as quickly as I'd taken him. I backed away from the slobbering, intoxicated monster and wiped hatred, saliva, and gin on my skirt. "I will live happily. I'll laugh and dance and smile. I'll have children and raise a brood that will never know a hint of the heartache and misery I've endured. Because, that's what hurts you the most, isn't it? A living reminder of my mother living happily while you must stew in misery forever because you were turned down by the jade that still rules your heart."

"She does not rule my heart!" he barked.

"But she does," I replied. "Just like I will always rule your thoughts." I took one last look at the man who'd made it his mission to make my life hell. "Goodbye, Uncle."

🥀

Elisabeth had parted from our last visit promising to be a better friend in the future. I'd expected her words to be just lip service, but she seemed to be doing her best to cement that promise. The following week she called to personally deliver an invitation to her ball, armed with a basket of my favorite childhood sweets. "Say you'll come," she pleaded. "It's not just a frivolous event, Frances and I are celebrating my pregnancy."

I congratulated her for coming with child and confirmed my attendance. My hatred of balls had evaporated with my poor personal esteem, and the idea of a social event was a welcomed distraction from the distressing dilemma of my marriage. So, I dressed in a beautiful frock of emerald green and rode to the event at a fashionably late hour. Ironically, the guests at this society function were gossipier than those at Leticia's ball. I amusingly pondered over what surprised them more—my sudden desire to take off my veil or the burns that had been previously concealed. Frances was the first gentleman to take me for a turn around the room.

"Congratulations on the baby," I murmured. "I know you've wanted one for quite some time."

"A congratulations is in order for you as well," he replied.

"I haven't done anything to merit congratulations."

"Taking off that ridiculous veil is one. Getting rid of that harpy is the other."

I let my eyes roll. "My veil was not ridiculous."

"It was," Frances disagreed. "You either looked like an expectant bride or a mourning widow." We both laughed at this comment. He opened his mouth to say something but it closed in a frown. His eyebrows lowered in consternation. I turned around to look at what perturbed him. In the middle of the ballroom stood the harpy herself, with a cloak still around her shoulders, staring directly at me.

A pit of foreboding swirled in my stomach. "You invited her?" I hissed to Frances.

"No," he answered through grit teeth. "I did nothing of the sort."

The guests stopped dancing and slowly moved to the edges of the ballroom, forming a sort of circle around the three of us. It was stage, I thought comically, for a performance starring the mistress, the wife, and the best friend's husband.

"You ruined everything," Victoria said after a moment of painful staring. "Matthew never would've found out about the baby if it weren't for you. You didn't deserve him, you never appreciated your role as his wife or an Axel." Victoria's green eyes were on fire. "I deserved him, and you took him away."

I didn't have time to offer a refute. Victoria produce a pistol from her skirts, and without allowing a second to slip by, pointed the weapon at me and pulled the trigger.