Page 50 of I (One) (War of Roses 3)

“Four years ago, the younger Robert Winthorp brought me…”

“What,” Mischa prods. “It’s all right.”

“He brought me a baby,” she admits, her body heaving. “A newborn. He told me to raise him. There were other nannies throughout the years, but I’ve been with him the longest. I was told that his mother was dead. But when he got older, the story changed…”

“How?” Mischa crosses over to her and places his hand on her shoulder. “Tell them.”

“He… He told him she was an angel, and that—one day, if he was good enough—he might bring her to see him.”

It’s a lie. It has to be a lie—no man could be that cruel. No woman could bethatnaïve. But horror renders me paralyzed regardless. I can clearly picture Robert performing every action described.

And it guts me to my core.

“A few months ago, he gave him a locket,” she says hoarsely. “He said it contained his mother’s picture.” She looks at me. “Herpicture.”

“Is this the locket?” Mischa reaches into his pocket and withdraws a golden chain. From it dangles a square-shaped charm. God, I recognize it…

The chain I saw around Eli’s neck.

“Yes.” Anna hunches over herself, clutching her chest. “Y-yes.”

The room descends into roars not even Mischa can overrule. A sea of voices and noise and grasping hands. I lash out, shoving my way through until I’m free of the press of people. Then I run until my shaking legs deposit me on the floor of a distant room and I’m alone.

But not for long. My pursuer betrays himself before he even finds my hiding place.

“Get up, Rose.”

“Maybe this truly is just a game to you,” I rasp, looking up and finding him in the doorway. “But this is my life!”

“A life you’ve been hiding from,” he points out.

“How could you do that to Anna?”

“Anna?” He sounds harsher than I’ve ever heard him. “Don’t fucking lie to me. You knew. You knew that child was yours the second you saw him. But you were afraid. Afraid to face the pain, and the anger, and the rage. I can understand that. But the time has come, Rose. You can’t escape the truth forever.”

“Truth?” I spit. “As if you give a damn about me. Admit it! All you wanted was to outwit Sergei and humiliate me!”

He blinks, and beneath the anger and rage, a suspicion gnaws away at the back of my mind: Maybe, for one brief second, the man feels some semblance of guilt.

But it’s still not enough.

“I hate you for this,” I spit, my voice breaking. “God, I hate you—”

“No, you don’t,” Mischa says. “You hate him. He manipulated and abused and lied to you for sixteen years. He turned your pain into a weapon, but now, you have the chance to do something about it. End the feud, or decide to run him into the ground. The choice is yours to make.” He starts through the doorway, but near the threshold, he pauses. “But know this… Whatever you choose, I’ll stand by it. If only to see you break the mold of a fucking pawn and finally play the game.”

He leaves, and in his absence, I haul myself to my feet, using the wall as a crutch. My mind reels, and a million conflicting emotions wrestle for control of my heart. Too many to decipher all at once. I can’t. My only course of action in this moment is to dry my tears and retrace my steps.

With effortless authority, Mischa and Sergei have regained control of the room, but the battle lines are even more defined. A virtual barrier splits the room in half. There is no question now as to who belongs to what side, save for two lone figures lingering on the outskirts of the hall.

One is Vanya, staring far away into the distance. Clinging to him is Anna. She looks at me, her eyes reddened and bloodshot, and quickly turns away, burying her face against her father’s shoulder. He strokes her absently, and with every pass of his hand through her hair, the fractures in my soul deepen.

“Have you made your decision?” Sergei wonders from the circle.

“Yes,” I croak. “But first… I need to say something.” My gaze travels to Mischa and he stiffens, wary. “I’ve only ever known the Winthorps,” I admit to the crowd, my voice growing in strength. “I was born in the manor, and for nearly twenty-four years, it was my prison…”

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