Chapter 9: The Truth That Ends Everything
419 Words
And terrible.
She came to a silent, sad realization.
"You took advantage of me."
"That wasn't how it was."
Her voice tightened as she answered, "It was exactly like that." "You provided me with
information." My investigation was guided by you. You gave me the impression that I was
discovering something naturally when, in fact—
He interjected, saying, "You were doing exactly what needed to be done."
"And who made that decision?" she insisted.
Nathaniel remained silent.
He was not required to.
Because there was already the truth.
Journalism had never been a factor in this.
It had been about tactics.
And without ever realizing it, she had participated in it.
"What is it?" he inquired.
Elowen didn't think twice.
"My folks."
More weighty than anything she had ever said, the words lingered in the atmosphere.
Alaric didn't answer right away for the first time since she'd known him.
That told her enough on its own.
Eventually, he added, "You've been researching long enough to know the answer."
"I would like to hear it from you."
There was silence between them.
"My company was responsible," followed by—
This time, there was no hesitancy.
No effort to make it softer.
Just the truth.
chilly. Direct. inevitable.
Elowen sensed a fissure inside of her that was far more dangerous than loud or dramatic.
Silently.
Irreversibly.
He went on, "It was an accident." "One of our early projects had a structural failure."
She maintained a solid posture, although her hands shook slightly at her sides.
"You were aware," she remarked.
"Yes."
"From the start."
"Yes."
Every response was given without hesitation.
without justification.
And for some reason, that made things worse.
since it indicated that he had decided to remain silent.
He had opted for closeness.
Even though he carried the truth that may ruin her, he had chosen her.
"Every moment, every conversation... you knew who I was," she remarked softly.
"Yes."
The air seemed heavier and more difficult to breathe, and the room felt suddenly smaller.
"And you're still my spouse."
"I had to keep you safe."
The words did not land correctly.
They were insufficient, not because they weren't genuine.
Her voice tightened as she said, "From what?" "The repercussions of something you did?"
"From those who would have exploited that fact against you."
She questioned, "And you didn't?"
This time, his quiet was distinct.
Not combative.
not determined.
but weighed down by something that seemed perilously near to remorse.
The thing that broke her was that.
- Writer
