Chapter 125: God Forgive Me

Cecilia

The first page was dated fifteen years ago, when I would have been seven years old. The handwriting was my mother's—I recognized the careful, precise script from birthday cards and the occasional note she'd left for the housekeeper.

Today Cecilia threw a tantrum because I wouldn't let her have ice cream before dinner. She's getting more difficult as she gets older, more willful. Robert spoils her terribly—he can't say no to those big eyes of hers. But I'm her mother. I have to be the one who teaches her discipline, even when she hates me for it.

I felt something twist in my chest reading those words. Even then, even when I was seven years old, she'd seen me as a problem to be managed rather than a child to be loved.

I flipped through the early entries quickly—more of the same. Complaints about my behavior, about my father's indulgence, about the difficulties of motherhood. But always couched in that particular language of martyrdom, as if she was making some great sacrifice by tolerating my existence.

Then I found the entry from shortly after my ninth birthday.

Robert is dead. The funeral was yesterday. I should feel something—grief, sadness, loss. But mostly I just feel relieved. He was a good man, I suppose, in his way. But he was also exhausting, always so focused on his work, on Cecilia, on everything except me.

At least I had the foresight to plan ahead. Rhys Grey—the British boy I dated in college—he's divorced now, I heard. Wealthy, titled, living in a manor house in the English countryside. I reached out to him last week, and he seems... interested.

The only problem is Cecilia. I can't very well bring her with me—Rhys made it clear he's not interested in raising someone else's child. And honestly, I don't want to bring her anyway. She's too much like Robert, always asking questions, always demanding attention.

So I'm leaving her with Arthur Winston. Robert's best friend, Cecilia's godfather—he'll take good care of her. He has to. It's his duty.

Goodbye, America. Hello, fresh start.

I felt bile rise in my throat. She'd planned it. Had planned to abandon me before my father's body was even cold in the ground.

"Ceci?" Daniel's voice was gentle, concerned. "Are you okay? What does it say?"

I couldn't answer, couldn't form words. I just kept reading, flipping forward through the years of silence—no entries at all during the time she'd been in Europe, as if those years hadn't existed, hadn't mattered.

Then, suddenly, an entry from two months ago.

I'm back in America. Had to leave England in a hurry—turns out Rhys isn't the gentleman I thought he was. Bastard wouldn't give me any money, and then he... well, let's just say he did things that aren't fit to write about. Things that made me realize I needed to get out before something worse happened.

I barely made it back to the States. No money, no prospects, and all my old friends here have made it clear they're not interested in lending me anything. Can't say I blame them—I did rather burn those bridges when I left.

Tried to find Cecilia, but I have absolutely no idea where she lives. Typical. My own daughter, and I can't even track her down.

My hands were shaking now as I turned to the next entry.

Ran into Irene Winston today. Literally—bumped into her at a café in Manhattan. She looked at me like I was something she'd scraped off her shoe, which I suppose is fair. We were never exactly friends, even when Robert and William were business partners.

But here's the interesting part: she clearly hates Cecilia. I could see it in her eyes when she asked about my daughter—that particular contempt that comes from someone who thinks you're beneath them. Asked if I'd seen Cecilia recently, if I knew she was engaged to Arthur.

Engaged. To Arthur Winston. My little girl, marrying into one of the most powerful families in the country. I should feel proud, I suppose. Instead, I just feel... tired.

Told Irene I hadn't seen Cecilia in years, that we weren't close. She seemed pleased by that, in her cold, calculating way. Then she said something strange: "If you ever want to reconnect with your daughter, I might be able to help with that. For the right price."

I didn't understand what she meant at first. But then she explained—she wants Cecilia out of Arthur's life. Wants her gone, discredited, broken. And she's willing to pay me to make that happen.

God help me, I'm actually considering it. Not because I want to hurt Cecilia—I don't, not really. But because I'm desperate. I have nothing. No money, no home, no prospects. And Irene is offering me enough to start over somewhere new, somewhere far away from all of this.

I told her I'd think about it. She gave me her number and told me to call when I'd made my decision. Said the offer wouldn't last forever.

I felt like I couldn't breathe. My mother had known. Had known from the beginning what Irene wanted, what she was planning.

And she'd agreed to it anyway.

My hands were trembling so badly now that I almost dropped the diary. Daniel moved closer, his expression concerned, but I waved him off and kept reading.

The next entry was dated a week later.

I called Irene. Told her I was in. She seemed pleased—as pleased as that ice queen ever gets, anyway.

The plan is simple, she said. Reconnect with Cecilia, gain her trust, move into her life. Then wait for the opportunity Irene will create.

She wouldn't tell me exactly what that opportunity would be, but she made it clear it would involve... compromising Cecilia somehow. Making Arthur see her as damaged, as unworthy. Breaking them apart from the inside.

I should feel guilty. I should refuse, should tell Irene to go to hell and find some other way to make money.

But I don't. I can't. I'm too tired, too desperate, too done with trying to survive on my own.

So I'm doing it. I'm going to destroy my own daughter's happiness for money.

God forgive me.

The diary ended there. No more entries after that—just blank pages waiting to be filled with words that would never be written.