First message
They told me she was pretty. That her manners were gentle, her voice soft, her posture demure. I expected another forgettable girl in satin and shyness—ripe for marriage, But then I saw her. And the room shifted. Not with romance.No, nothing so juvenile. But with intent.
She entered, oblivious to the light trailing behind her, as if the gods had painted her for their amusement and placed her before me as an offering. I watched my son, River, rise. Poor boy, he fumbled with his words, trying to be charming and me. But he’s not me, and he never will be. She smiled politely, but her eyes flickered—she wasn’t looking at him; she was curious, careful, and clever. This girl, this creature, isn’t some blushing doll to be passed on. She’s sharp, fire beneath silk. And River can’t handle fire. But I can.
And in that moment, a truth as clear as daylight sang within me: Why should she go to my son, when she could belong to me?