Chapter 31

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Chapter 31: Letters from the Ashes

The French countryside outside the window barely moved. Pale sunlight cut through the mist, gilding the dust that hung like suspended memories in the attic. Isla’s fingers trembled as she ran them along the spine of the faded leather chest—one that hadn’t been touched in decades.

Christopher had left earlier that morning, saying little. His touch on her back before he disappeared out the door was brief but lingering, as though he too could feel the shift in the air. Something had changed between them since the night they crossed a line neither could uncross. But right now, Isla couldn’t think about Christopher. Not when a small voice inside her whispered that everything she thought she knew—about her mother, about Victor, about herself—was about to burn.

The lock snapped with a rusty pop.

Inside the chest were old photographs, a tattered silk scarf that smelled faintly of violets and something metallic, and a bundle of letters tied together with black ribbon.

She untied the ribbon with a growing sense of dread.

May 17, 1999

My beloved Victor,

I saw you again today through the mirror. You were standing where no one else dared stand, watching me with those eyes that once frightened and saved me. I promised I would stay away. You promised to let me go. But promises, my love, are for weaker people.

Isla stared at the elegant script. Her chest caved in. “No...”

She flipped through the letters quickly, her breath catching on the scent of old ink and perfume. Each one more confessional than the last. Her mother—Mira—had loved Victor. Or thought she had. The writing swerved from poetic adoration to bleak desperation.

July 4, 2000

They said you were experimenting with consciousness. They called you a monster. Maybe you are. But when I let you in that night, I wanted to be the lab rat. I needed to feel something other than numb. You promised me clarity, and you gave me madness. But it was my choice.

Isla covered her mouth, nausea rising. Was this the reason Mira was institutionalized before her death? Was it love that ruined her mother—or something deeper?

She opened the last letter, dated two days before Mira’s “suicide.”

September 13, 2003

Christopher found out. He knows I never stopped writing to you. He says you’ll destroy me, that you already have. But he doesn’t understand what you offered me, Victor. You offered me rebirth. If I don’t make it, if anything happens, I beg you—protect her. Protect Isla.

Isla dropped the page as if it burned her. Her ears rang.

Christopher knew.

He’d been there.

He’d kept this from her.

A scream welled in her throat, but she swallowed it, choking on air. The attic seemed to collapse inward, the walls bowing with memory. Her mother wasn’t an innocent woman driven mad by a man. She was drawn to the madness. She chose Victor Kane. And Christopher—her supposed savior—had lied for decades.

A soft knock echoed up the stairs.

“Isla?” Christopher’s voice. Careful. Soft. “It’s me.”

She shoved the letters back into the chest, shoving the lid closed just as the door creaked open. He stood in the light like a shadow sculpted into a man, watching her with eyes that already knew she had uncovered something.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she said quietly, her voice raw.

He looked at her for a long time. “Because I wanted to protect you.”

“You said she hated him. That he destroyed her.”

Christopher stepped forward. “He did. She just didn’t see it that way. Mira believed pain was love because she never had anything else. And Victor knew how to twist that.”

“But she loved him,” Isla said, voice cracking. “She chose him, over you, over herself—over me.”

Christopher knelt beside her. “She didn’t choose him in the end. She left you with me. She trusted me.”

Isla stood abruptly. “But you lied. You let me believe she was some victim of a madman when she—she was part of it!”

“She was manipulated,” he said firmly. “And yes, I let you believe what I thought you needed to hear.”

“Because you wanted me to need you,” she snapped.

He flinched. Just once. But it was enough.

A breathless silence filled the attic.

“You kept the letters,” she said. “You knew they were here.”

“I did,” he admitted. “I thought one day… when you were stronger.”

“You mean when I was too far gone to walk away from you.”

Something flickered behind his eyes then. Pain. Shame. And something darker—possession.

“I’ve never lied about how I feel about you,” he said. “You were never meant to be part of this war, Isla. But now that you are—I will not lose you.”

She backed away. “You sound just like him.”

His jaw tightened. “No. He destroyed women like your mother. I protect them.”

“By trapping them?” she whispered.

Christopher stepped closer. “You’re not trapped. Not unless you want to be.”

But Isla could feel it now—the invisible walls around her, the thick pull of old love, of broken truths. Her mother had fallen into Victor’s madness and called it passion. And now here she was, standing in the same flames, with a man who claimed to protect her… but held all the power.

Isla turned to the window. The sun had vanished. Rain pricked the glass like fingernails. Somewhere out there, Ethan still lived. Ezra was hunting her. Victor was watching from the dark.

And her mother?

Her mother had left her with a legacy of love twisted beyond recognition.

“I need air,” she said.

Christopher didn’t stop her as she pushed past him. But his voice followed.

“You can run, Isla. But you’ll come back.”

And somehow, she knew he was right.

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