Chapter 30: The Weight of Truth

The fire in the hearth had burned low, the embers glowing like dying stars beneath a bed of ash. The study was cloaked in shadows, the flickering light barely touching the dark wood-paneled walls. My father’s portrait loomed above the fireplace, his cold, unyielding gaze watching me from across the room.

I turned away, pouring a glass of brandy with an unsteady hand. The amber liquid barely settled before I downed half of it, the burn in my throat nothing compared to the weight pressing against my chest.

Eleanor had read the diary.

I knew it the moment I saw the way her expression had changed in the past days—the way her gaze lingered on me, thoughtful, uncertain. She knew now what my mother had suffered. What my father had done.

And what did that mean for me?