The Reigning and the Rule

by Calia Read

  I’m not Scarlett’s biggest fan, but I don’t hate her either. I don’t think she deserves to be cheated on, but it’s impossible to explain the bond Étienne and I have. When I do attempt to untangle our love, people look at me as if I’m crazy. Which in turn only binds us closer together.

  “If you can tell me that you feel nothin’ when I touch and kiss you, then I’ll stop.” He presses closer, his hands slipping to cradle my neck. “Tell me you feel nothin’,” he urges.

  My hands settle against his stomach. I feel the solid wall of muscle, and for a few seconds, I feel safe. Untouchable. Not even time can grab me when I’m here. “Of course, I feel something,” I whisper.

  “You love me,” he says in a gruff voice.

  “Yes. But—”

  He silences me with a kiss. Stealing my breath and words like a thief. All my valid arguments disappear as I open my mouth to him and deepen the kiss.

  Moments later, we pull away, both gasping for air. Both clinging to each other as if we’ll never see each other again.

  “I don’t know how to be around you and not love you,” Étienne says.

  I feel his confession rock through me, leaving me speechless. I’ve spent the better part of my time here being angry with him, but it’s getting harder and harder to hold that anger, especially after today.

  But I need space. I need some time to think. “Étienne, I have to go.”

  His forehead touches mine briefly before he gives me a chaste kiss and backs away. “This conversation isn’t over,” he says.

  “I know,” I say, taking a deep, shuddering breath before I blindly reach for the door.

  “Serene?”

  I look over my shoulder in his direction. “Étienne?”

  “I’d try you for the rest of my life,” he says. Even in the dark, I can see the wicked grin on his face.

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “You secretly love it,” he shoots back.

  As much as I’d love to tell him he’s lying, I can’t. I do love it. What’s more, I know I’m the only person who gets to see this side of him. I don’t hide the smile the creeps on my lips. “I’m leaving this closet, and you’re going to stop saying things like that.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Wait five minutes and then come out.”

  “Okay.”

  Pressing my ear against the door, I strain to listen for any voices or footsteps. Once I’m confident I’m in the clear, I open the door. The light from the chandelier makes me wince. I’m almost tempted to go right back into the closet.

  Belgrave is relatively quiet except for the staff moving around in the kitchen. I’m in the clear. With a deep breath, I give the closet one last look and turn in the direction of the backyard only to run into someone. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  I begin to smile but stop when I see the person is Scarlett. She stares at me with a small frown marring her face. She takes in my appearance, her eyes zooming in on my neck. I fight the urge to cover the mark with my hand. I swear she knows where I’ve been, what I’ve done, and who I was with.

  “You were in a rush,” she observes.

  Taking another deep breath, I pat my stomach and hike a thumb toward the hallway. “I had to go to the ladies’ room. The food wasn’t agreeing with me.”

  Slowly, she nods but doesn’t look convinced.

  An uncomfortable silence hangs between us. I try to keep a friendly smile on my face, but it’s beginning to waver under Scarlett’s intense scrutiny. I can’t take much more and point at the backyard.

  “I should probably head back on out. I wanted to talk to Nat before she leaves.”

  Scarlett nods as I brush past her. As I walk toward the French doors that lead to my freedom, I feel as if a thousand pounds is lifted off my shoulder. I’m almost there when I hear Scarlett speak.

  “Do you know where Étienne is?”

  I freeze. Instinctively, I close my eyes and school my features into a mask of indifference before I turn back around. I pretend to mull over Scarlett’s question. “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  “I’ve been looking for him. My father wanted to speak with him, but he’s nowhere to be found.”

  “Have you checked his office?” I ask.

  Scarlett tilts her head to the side as she looks at me. “I have. He wasn’t there.”

  I shrug and feign disinterest. “I don’t know what to tell you then.”

  Her eyes narrow.

  I’m close to dipping out of the conversation for the second time when I see Étienne walking down the hallway. I try to meet his gaze so he can turn a different direction, but he’s too busy fixing his waistcoat to notice us standing there and promptly walks past us.

  Scarlett sees him, and her eyes light up. “There you are!”

  Similar to me, Étienne goes stock-still before he twists around and dips his head toward Scarlett. “I didn’t notice you there.”

  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  “She has. I told her you were probably in your office,” I say pointedly.

  Étienne’s eyes connect with mine for a brief second before he nods. His face remains stoic as ever, but there’s a faint flush on his cheeks. His hair is partially mussed from my hands, and the left sleeve of his dress shirt is coated with dust from the closet wall.

  Maybe it’s my guilt taking over, but I swear he has flashing lights over his head with a sign that says, “I just gave Serene the greatest orgasm of her life!”

  “Yes, that’s correct. I was in my office.”

  “Really? I looked for you. You weren’t there.”

  Étienne face never changes. “Perhaps we missed each other. Is there something I can help you with?”

  I feel like I’m going to throw up. I want to grab Scarlett by the shoulders and ask her to list the reasons she loves Étienne. I want to know if she sees the real him because if she does, if she genuinely loves him, then maybe I can back away. But as I watch her cheeks turn a crimson red as she quietly speaks to him, I realize she’ll take a back seat in their marriage and Étienne will immediately grow bored.

  I can see them living a life filled with placidity and no fire.

  She’ll be good to him, though, my mind whispers the tragic truth. And she can do one thing you can’t: stay by his side.

  The reminder feels like a bucket of cold water being thrown over my head. Abruptly, I turn and walk toward the backyard, feeling Étienne’s gaze on me.

  I need to stay away from Étienne and wait for Asa to come back, but it’s apparent that I can’t do that. And neither can he. While I’m in this time, can I be that woman? Can I sneak behind everyone’s back and have secret moments with Étienne all because my heart bleeds at the thought of not being with him?

  I’d love to say no, but my mussed hair, swollen lips, and the bruise on my neck say differently.

  I need to get this situation under control; since I’ve been here, I’ve felt as though I’ve been on a never-ending roller coaster ride. My body jerking this way and that. Heart racing every second. And it doesn’t matter how tightly I grip the handlebars, I always feel as if I’m going to fall at any given moment.

  In Charleston, the air becomes brisk during the winter, holding a taciturn but steady pulse that’s rarely discernible the rest of the year. Maybe the humidity is typically so unbearable, you feel as though you’re wading through mire every time you step outside.

  I’ve developed the habit of opening my window every morning for the past twenty-five days. It’s under the guise of looking at the scenery, but if I’m not with Nat or Livingston, I find myself sitting beside the window and listening to snippets of conversations. If I tallied up the number of discussions I’ve overheard, it would be upward of hours, and the one thing I take away from each morsel of those brief talks is this: people in the Holy City are the secret keepers of the South. They’re so well-mannered it’s damn near impossible to tell when someone is having a bad day, and if they are, they just kee
p quiet and smile. Why air your dirty laundry in public when you can unload it at home behind closed doors?

  I’ve always wondered if that’s what gives Charleston such allure in the present day. There’s a myriad of stories in this city, and they rarely leave the city borders. The floors of homes vibrate with the echoes of previous owners. The walls and ceiling readily absorb every scene occurring around them.

  Yes, secret keepers indeed. But I wasn’t born and raised in this town. I’m not wired to keep quiet. Holding my emotions—whether good or bad—makes me feel ill. I have to expel them in some way. And in the three days since Nat’s wedding, I’ve kept the sinister feeling that something terrible was on the horizon to myself.

  Speaking to Nat was out of the question; it felt wrong to bother her right now. She was staying in a hotel in Charleston with Oliver until they departed for Savannah tomorrow. Oliver has business to attend to, and they’ll briefly spend time at his family home. They would go on their honeymoon in a matter of weeks.

  I didn’t realize how much I relied on Nat’s visits until she stopped coming around. I stay inside because I don’t want to encounter Scarlett or, worse, see her with Étienne. I live in my own head and think about three people—Étienne, Asa, and Emmeline. There’s been nothing but radio silence from Asa.

  Restlessly, I head to the library in search of a book to read. I know that I’m free to come and go as I please, but I feel like a prisoner. Time is holding me hostage. I can’t find the key to escape no matter how hard I try.

  The curtains are pulled back. Bright light slashes across the wood floors and causes the mahogany bookshelves to gleam. With my hands behind my back, I take my time walking in that direction. I scan the spines, looking for a book that will catch my attention. Nothing stands out to me, so I grab the first book I see and walk toward the chaise lounge with the book clutched to my chest. The house is eerily quiet. Surprisingly, Livingston is at work, leaving me in the company of my own frantic thoughts. All of them center around Étienne. I want to shoo them away, but like pesky flies, they refuse to leave.

  In the sitting room, everything is impeccably picked out to invite guests in. But inside the library, the environment is more intimate. Hanging above the fireplace is a painting of Étienne with his family before his brother Julian and parents died. I’ve stared at it a thousand times since I’ve arrived, and even now, I find myself inching toward it. There are hardly any photos of the Lacroix family at Belgrave. I think Étienne did that on purpose, and I think Livingston has this picture hanging on the wall on purpose. Everyone handles their pain differently.

  Étienne couldn’t be more than sixteen or seventeen, which would make it four years before the tragic accident. He stands beside his father, already as tall as him. Étienne’s hair is cut short, and his cheeks are devoid of his typical stubble. His eyes make my heart ache because they glimmer with hope for the future. He doesn’t know what’s to come.

  Livingston stands on the opposite side of their dad. He’s a few inches shorter and hasn’t filled out yet, but he still has that charming glint in his eyes. He fights to keep a straight face, but his devious smirk gets the best of him, showing that he’s going to leave a trail of broken hearts behind him when he’s older.

  Sitting on a chair is their mother, Charlotte. The corners of my mouth droop down in sadness as I look at her. Her shoulders are pushed back as she sits straight. She wears modern clothes for the time, and her dark brown hair is swept up in a bun. Étienne’s green eyes and sharp cheekbones came from her, but his dirty blond hair and stern expression came directly from his father, Adrien Lacroix.

  Julian stands beside Charlotte. He looks to be around eleven or twelve. His green eyes are wide and cheeks rosy. I could picture him running around Belgrave and them shouting for him to come into the room for the portrait.

  Nathalie stands to Charlotte’s left. Nat’s dark hair is in ringlets and pulled back in a common style for little girls back then. She’s wearing a frilly dress and stares dully ahead. She has to be seven.

  For the era, everyone is unsmiling, but you can see the love between each other from the way Nat leans toward her mom. The way Julian comfortably rest his hand on his mom’s shoulder and how Charlotte clutches Nat’s hand between her own hands. Or the way Étienne and Livingston stand tall and proud beside their father.

  I can’t help but wonder if the accident never happened and they were alive right now, would I have ever time traveled and met Étienne?

  The thought fills me with panic and has me abruptly turning away from the portrait. I can’t face the accusing eyes of Étienne’s parents right now.

  When Étienne and Scarlett get married, will they also inherit this property? If they do, will she remodel the rooms? Better yet, will she remodel Belgrave? The thought makes me sick.

  Belgrave is mine.

  Étienne is mine.

  Mine, mine, mine.

  I get comfortable on the chaise lounge and try to immerse myself in the book, but I re-read the first page three times before I finally give up. This isn’t working. I set the book down, get up, and head toward Livingston’s desk. If I have to wait until Asa comes back, then I will, but I need to be ready. I need to take another look at my list. I hurry to my room and dig through one of the vanity drawers. Once I find my list, I rush back to the library. There are no pens on Livingston’s desk, so I open the drawers in search of one.

  I don’t know if I’ll have much to add to my dismal list. But I think visiting Hambleton’s department store is a good place to go. At this point, I feel as though I’m blindly grabbing at anything coming my way.

  Unlike Étienne, Livingston doesn’t keep his desk drawers locked up like Fort Knox. I open almost all of them, searching for something to write with. Bending down, I flip through a stack of papers. There’s a flash of green, and I stop, then quickly backtrack.

  I lift my head toward the closed door. My guilty conscience is telling me what I’m doing is wrong, yet I can’t seem to help myself.

  I pull out the piece of paper, and my heart almost drops to my stomach.

  It’s obviously stock. Just five shares. It looks similar to money with the vignette of a building and landscape to the left, next to the company name that clearly reads HAMBLETON’S.

  Above that is the inscription, Incorporated Under the Laws of the State of Illinois.

  I continue scanning the stock. “This stock certifies that Livingston Lacroix is the owner of five shares of the capital stock of the Hambleton’s Company transferable only on the books of the corporation in person or by an attorney on surrender of this certificate properly endorsed.”

  There are more words, but they’re insignificant. All that matters is I’m holding stock with Livingston’s name, linking him to my family’s company.

  With shaking hands, I lift my head and stare blindly at the wall. Livingston is easygoing. He’s not business driven. Anyone could’ve told him about investing in Hambleton’s. But if Livingston knew about the investment opportunity, so did Étienne. Where one brother was, the other was sure to follow.

  My mind begins to race with so many theories and questions. The first one being, why didn’t they tell me about this?

  There’s a sharp knock on the door. Jumping, I drop the paper onto the desk.

  “Ms. Langley?” Livingston’s butler calls.

  “Yeah?” I say as I grab the stock and toss it back into the desk and frantically start shutting the drawers.

  “You have a visitor.”

  I open the door, nearly out of breath. “I do?” I blurt. In the time since I’ve been here, the only visitors I’ve had have been Nathalie, but she simply barges on in. “Who?”

  “A Mr. Nicholas Gould.”

  Looking over my shoulder, I give the desk a look filled with yearning. I want answers. Bad. But I’m not going to ignore Nicholas.

  “He’s in the sitting parlor.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be down shortly.”

  “You’ll
see him by yourself?”

  I can’t stop from rolling my eyes. “Dude. I’m a grown ass woman. I think my girlish sensibilities can handle one conversation.” It’s impressive how blunt a person can be when they have zero fucks to give.

  And that’s where I’m at. Zero fucks.

  He dips his head in acknowledgment, but his brows practically reach his hairline, then he walks away. Placing a hand on my racing heart. I need to get it together and see what Nicholas wants. Then I can find Livingston and find out what the hell is going on.

  The stairs creak as I walk down them. When I reach the first floor, I can smell the delicious dinner being prepared by the cooks. I try to keep my footsteps light, but in the stillness of the house, every step seems to reverberate off the walls.

  Before I enter the sitting parlor, I smooth out any potential wrinkles in my long, high-waisted narrow maroon skirt that’s held up by a black belt. My hand brushes over my lacy, ivory shirtwaist. Once again, I refrained from wearing a corset and have my bra on. I felt like breathing today. My wild hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, but to appease Mollie, I let her tie a maroon ribbon around the ponytail and pull curly strands around my ears and temples. If her goal was to make me appear girlish, then she succeeded. I was too tired to fight her and let it be.

  I step into the room, but Nicholas doesn’t notice me. He slowly spins the Edwardian table globe placed in front of the many windows

  Linking my hands behind my back, I walk forward. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

  Nicholas looks over his shoulder at me and gives me a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. I know he’s still thinking about my rejection at Nat’s reception. “It’s been three days since I’ve seen you. I thought I would stop by and say hello.” His eyes take their time looking me up and down. “You look lovely.”

  “I feel like shit,” I say bluntly.

  Nicholas’s eyes widen at my straightforward answer. “And why is that?”

  There’s no way I’m going to tell Nicholas the truth of why I’m here and what I just found. I’ve learned my lesson the hard way. I shrug a shoulder and make a circle around the room before I stop beside him and watch as he continues to turn the globe around and around. Out of the corner of my eyes, I stare at his handsome profile. “Are you familiar with the department store Hambleton’s?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual.