Chapter 16: Nothing Private
MARGAUX
"Margo." My name came out sharp, almost a warning. "Not this again."
"I do need this." The words spilled faster now, desperate to get out before she could shut me down completely. "For some reason today... No, for a while now, he has dominated my thoughts. I thought time was making it better. But no."
I swallowed hard, trying to organize the chaos in my head into something that made sense. "When I was on that altar, all I could think about was him. I even started to think..."
I stopped myself, the words dying before I could voice them. What would I even say? That my new husband reminded me of the boy I’d in part destroyed? That those familiar gestures and what I believed was a slipped nickname had sent my mind spinning into impossible conclusions?
"From what I remember," I continued instead, "I asked Uncle Lucian to help him when he was being kicked out at the border to die the kinder way... Starving and with no community... He helped, right?"
My mother’s expression hardened. "Of course not. Lucian told you that to soften the guilt you felt for rejecting him at my order. You would have suffered if he had not lied to you."
The confession hit like a physical blow. My breath caught. My chest tightened around the sharp sting of betrayal. All these years, I’d carried that small comfort—the belief that at least I’d tried to help him, that at least he hadn’t been completely alone. It had been a lie.
"We were so cruel." My voice came out smaller than I intended. "He had no hand in his parents’ crimes."
"Blood is blood." My mother’s tone was final, absolute. "Suffer the blood of a traitor to live, and the consequences will find you. He was always meant for the guillotine. But killing a child is barbaric, so there are other ways to do it."
She turned to face me fully, her expression hard in a way I rarely saw. "You are no longer a child now, Margo. I can tell it to you as it is. That poor boy is probably dead."
The words settled in my stomach like stones. Dead. Étienne was dead. He was the boy who’d loved dancing, even though he was terrible at it. The boy who’d called me Margotine and made me laugh until my sides hurt. Dead, because of something stupid that his father had decided to do.
’Perhaps the Goddess was kind,’ I tried weakly. ’Maybe that wasn’t what happened. Perhaps...’
"Do not bother lying to yourself." My mother’s voice softened slightly, but the certainty remained. "Just focus on getting through today, and do not break your heart even more. That was so long ago and in the past."
She moved toward the door, pausing with her hand on the handle. "Let us go."
"I want to freshen up first." I forced the words past the tightness in my throat. "Go. I will catch up."
She nodded and left, the door closing behind her with a soft click that felt too final.
I stood alone in the bathroom, staring at my reflection in the mirror. The red dress blazed garishly under the harsh lights. My makeup was frozen, each line a mask. My hair was still elegantly styled, but my eyes looked hollow—like hope had been scraped out, leaving only a brittle shell.
My mother had seemed so certain. Étienne was dead. Gone. Reduced to nothing more than a guilty memory I needed to bury.
Perhaps it was all in my head. The familiar gestures. The nickname. The eyes that looked too much like ones I’d loved. Grief and stress were playing tricks on me, making me see ghosts where there were only strangers.
A toilet flushed.
I froze, my heart stuttering. Someone had been in here the entire time. They’d heard everything. Every confession, every guilty admission, every word about Étienne.
The stall door opened, and the girl from earlier stepped out. Théo’s sister. She walked to the sink as if nothing unusual had happened, turned on the water, and washed her hands with methodical care.
She looked at me in the mirror and smiled. "Hi. I am Céline. Théo’s sister."
My throat went dry. I forced myself to smile back, to pretend my world hadn’t just tilted sideways. "Margaux. Though I suppose you already know that."
"I like your hair." She said it pleasantly, as if we were two girls meeting at a party rather than in-laws bound by politics and her brother’s threats.
"Thank you." I smoothed my hands down the red fabric of my dress, trying to find my footing. "Sorry about traumatizing you with that story."
Céline’s smile didn’t waver. "Why would I take offense? The law is the law. Those who commit wickedness deserve to be punished."
She dried her hands, the paper towel crumpling in her grip. Then she walked toward me, that smile still fixed in place, her tone sugary sweet.
"Or do you not think so?"
The question felt like a test. Like she was probing for something specific, looking for a reaction I didn’t know how to give. Everything about her demeanor screamed attack, even though her expression remained pleasant.
"Yeah," I said carefully. "I agree."
I extended my hand, trying to bridge whatever gap existed between us. "Let us get to know each other more. I am going to be your brother’s wife, after all."
Céline laughed, the sound light and genuine. "Sorry for laughing. It is not you. But the thought of Théo marrying is still so insane."
Her expression shifted, something almost warm flickering across her features. "But I am glad he chose you, though. I hate long engagements."
She looked at my outstretched hand, then back at my face. "I would shake your hand, but mine is still a little wet."
She moved past me toward the door, pausing just before she reached it. "See you around, sister-in-law."
The last two words came with a small chuckle, like they were a private joke I wasn’t in on.
Then she was gone, leaving me alone again with my thoughts and the echo of her laughter.
I waited until I was certain she’d left before moving. My legs felt unsteady as I walked back toward the hall, my mind spinning through everything that had just happened. Céline had heard everything. She knew about Étienne, about my guilt, about the boy my family had destroyed.
Would she tell her brother? Would it matter if she did?
The hall came into view ahead, still filled with guests pretending this was a normal celebration. I scanned the crowd automatically, looking for anyone familiar.
Shanelle stood near the far wall, deep in conversation with someone whose back was to me. The person turned, responding to something she said, and my heart skipped a beat.
Chris.
He’d come back. Despite the distance and despite the impossibility of arriving in time, he’d somehow made it.
He looked up as I stepped fully into the room, his expression brightening immediately when he saw me. Relief and concern warred across his features. He started toward me, moving with the kind of purpose that said he had things to say, probably arguments about why this wedding shouldn’t have happened.
But before he’d made it more than a few steps, someone blocked my line of sight.
Théo appeared in front of me, his presence cutting off my view of Chris completely. He stood close enough that I had to tilt my head back to see his masked face.
"There you are," he said.