Page 74 of State of Ruin

And worse:

God forbid, a letter shows up in your mailbox with a wax Voss seal on it. You know you’re done for.

I feel a cold sense of dread, like when someone gets served in the movies. Only this feels worse than a subpoena, because the possibilities of what kind of damage this letter could wreak are endless. Are you freaking kidding me? He’s sending me some kind of, what, legal warning? On fucking Thanksgiving?

I don’t want to take it.

I want to hand it back and slam the door. I’ve blocked his number. Dad’s barred him from the house. And still he’s trying to get to me? Can he not take no for an answer?

“I’ve been instructed to wait for an hour,” the courier says, “in case there’s a reply.”

I shake my head quickly. “Oh, no. There will not be a reply.”

“Still, I’ve been paid to wait.”

“Honestly,” I tell him, “you can go. It’s too cold to wait around for an hour. We’re about to go to bed anyway,” I lie, and he nods, looking relieved.

“What is it?” Sylvie asks when I close the door.

“It’s nothing—give me a minute, okay?” I don’t want to upset any of them, tonight of all nights, at least not until I know what this is all about.

I close my bedroom door and sit on my twin bed, staring at the perfect, looping cursive on the front of the envelope.

I could go back in there and burn it on the stovetop.

He can’t make me read it.

He can’t make me listen to him, or obey him, or whatever else.

He and I are done.

But I don’t, obviously, because I’m far too curious. I open the envelope, I ease out the pages, and I begin to read.

November 26

My darling Elyse,

I’ve been slumped at the desk in our study for a half-hour, hiding from my own family on Thanksgiving and remembering being in here with you.

(Everything reminds me of you. Every single thing.)

I remember making some comment as I showed you our seal. Something about how much damage has been done in this room over the decades: lives ruined and tragedies concealed and wrongdoings erased with money and threats.

Money and threats.

Honestly, our family crest should be a carrot and a stick.

Anyway, it got me thinking. Thinking about how despicably I’ve wronged you. How badly I’ve hurt and betrayed you—but worse, how callously I played God with your career. Your life.

First things first. Attached is a deed of release for the initial NDA, like I promised.

I should have torn it up as soon as I invited you to my apartment. I should never have made you sign it. I should never have tried to silence you. Anyway, there are no longer any legal obstacles to your speaking freely to whomever you want about all the myriad ways in which I’ve wronged you.

I visited your home earlier this week. Did you know? I’m sure you know. I’m sure your dad and your sister told you what a lucky escape you had. But you needn’t worry. Your dad told me to go away and never to come back, and I want you to know that I respect that. I won’t come back. I won’t try to blindside you. And it makes me so happy that you have your family in your corner. That they would do anything to protect you. You need and deserve that, especially when there exist men like me in the world.

But I want to say how sorry I am.

I’m sorry for every single part of this.