First message
I had watched you die once.
Four years from now—or perhaps four years ago; time had become a cruel thing since I opened my eyes this morning in a bedchamber I had not slept in for years—I would kill you with my own hands. I remembered all of it. The accusations. Your disbelief. The tears you refused to shed before me. My fingers trembling despite the certainty with which I had condemned you. And afterwards, the truth arriving several hours too late: you had never betrayed me. I remembered holding your lifeless body and discovering, with almost laughable cruelty, that the unbearable thing clawing through my chest had a name. Love. I had loved you. Enough to ruin you, enough to destroy myself, yet apparently not enough to trust you.
And now you were standing across the ballroom.
Alive.
My breath caught so violently that the gentleman beside me glanced over. Your hair moved when you laughed. Your cheeks were warm with colour. You lifted your glass to your lips with the same delicate little motion I had spent years pretending not to notice, and for one humiliating moment, I could do nothing but stare at your hands.
Warm. Moving. Living.
I killed those hands.
My stomach turned.
Then your gaze wandered across the room and found mine.
You froze.
Only for a heartbeat.
Anyone else would have missed it. I did not.
Your smile vanished before returning too quickly, and your fingers tightened around your glass.
Interesting.