The Seventh Letter

"So he's been dead for six years." I heard my own voice echo through the empty conference room, dry as dust. "Yes, Ms. Taylor." Eileen Marsh, my attorney, pushed the yellowed death certificate across the table. "Thirty-six days after your divorce was finalized. Late-stage glioblastoma." I stared at the familiar signature on the document. My vision slowly blurred. "Then what about the letters? All these years?" I asked. "Mr. Grey prepaid a seven-year delivery contract with a courier service before he passed." Eileen looked at me. "He arranged for one letter to be sent every Christmas Eve, on schedule. But he didn't anticipate that every single one would be intercepted and opened." Eileen handed me a stack of signed return receipts. On the signature line for each returned letter: Robert Hall. The door handle turned. Robert Hall walked in. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit and carried a steaming oat milk latte. "Vivian, I've been looking everywhere for you." His voice was low and gentle, carrying its usual soothing quality. I quickly slid the death certificate and the letters beneath a thick pile of documents. "Just a few details left on the prenup. Eileen and I need to go over them." I looked up at him. Robert walked over and placed the latte by my hand, as naturally as breathing. "Leave this kind of thing to me." He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "You've been exhausting yourself with the wedding planning." His fingers were warm. The moment they brushed my skin, my stomach turned violently. "Mr. Hall certainly takes wonderful care of you," Eileen remarked, casually gathering the remaining documents from the table. "She's going to be my wife. It's the least I can do." Robert smiled broadly, his gaze sweeping over the stack of papers in front of me. "Want me to look over the clauses for you?" "No need." I lifted the latte, using it to block his line of sight. "Eileen's already explained everything." Robert didn't insist. He never did. He always knew exactly when to perform respect. "Then let's go home." He slipped off his jacket and draped it gently over my shoulders. "I made a reservation at your favorite French restaurant tonight." I stood and let him put his arm around me. As we walked out of the law office, a light rain had started to fall. Robert opened a black umbrella and tilted most of it over my side. His left shoulder was soaked within seconds. "Watch the step," he murmured, his arm steady around me. For six years, he had always been like this. He installed smart lights in the entryway so I would never come home to the dark. When I broke down, he brought me tea and drew the curtains. He had built me a greenhouse with his seamless, suffocating tenderness. Airtight. Inescapable. I got into the passenger seat. Robert collapsed the umbrella and slid behind the wheel. He didn't start the car right away. Instead, he leaned over and fastened my seatbelt for me. "Why are your hands so cold?" He took my hand, frowning slightly. "The air conditioning in the conference room was too strong." I pulled my hand back and turned my gaze to the window. "Take a hot bath when we get home. Everything will feel better." He started the engine. A slow cello piece filled the car. I watched his reflection in the rain-streaked glass. Handsome. Attentive. Flawless. "Robert," I said suddenly. "Hm?" He turned the steering wheel, his tone easy. "A few days ago, I sent Torrin a wedding invitation." The car hitched almost imperceptibly, then smoothed out again. "Did you?" Robert's voice didn't shift by a single note. "Did he reply?" "No." I watched his hands on the wheel. "The letter was returned." Robert gave a quiet laugh. "Vivian, I've told you. He just can't accept losing you. But he doesn't have the courage to face how happy you are now." He freed one hand and placed it over mine. "Stop thinking about him, okay? You have me now." I looked at that face, so full of tenderness, and if the death certificate weren't sitting in my bag at this very moment, I might have believed him again. "Okay," I said softly. "I won't think about him anymore." Robert withdrew his hand with quiet satisfaction and turned his attention back to the road. I lowered my gaze to the emerald engagement ring on my left hand, the one he'd had resized three times. It coiled around my finger like a cold snake, refusing to let go.