Chapter 87 It was me
CHAPTER 87: It was me
Silas
The silence of the mansion was deafening, a sharp contrast to the chaotic roar of the ballroom we had just left behind. We were in the living room. Vera sat on the couch, her hands tightly fisted in her lap. Chauncey stood by the door, his hands shoved in his pockets, his jacket missing and his sleeves rolled up. My shoes had worn holes in the floor with pacing for the past ten minutes.
My movements were uneven, my hands trembling with a frantic, erratic energy. Every nerve in my body was screaming, agitated by the appearance of that man.
Chauncey watched me with a gaze that was heavy with a mix of confusion and genuine concern.
“Brother, that's enough. You need to breathe,” he said, his voice soft. He turned to Vera who was staring into nothing with a haunted, vacant look in her eyes. “I think Vera needs to rest too. It's best for everyone at this point.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Look, I’ll head out now and give you two some space. I’ll come over first thing tomorrow and we can talk through whatever that lunatic was rambling about.”
“Stay,” I said, the word sounding like a shard of broken glass. I turned to find him still standing in the doorway. “Wait for me in the study. We need to talk, brother. Tonight.”
His brow furrowed in a deep, suspicious line, eyes narrowing suspiciously, but he eventually nodded, leaning back against the doorframe as I turned toward the stairs.
I grabbed Vera’s hand. Her fingers were like ice in mine, her silence almost as deafening as the thoughts screaming in my head. I helped her up, leading her up the grand staircase. Each step felt like a mile; each breath felt like lead. Still none of us said a word until we arrived in our bedroom.
I closed the door and watched Vera stumble to the bed and drop down on it. I stepped back and leaned against the door, staring at her. She looked so small, so broken…like a doll caught in a storm she neither expected nor understood. It made something ache in my chest.
“Vera,” I breathed, my voice steady despite, even though I felt nothing like it. “This is not the best time, but I have to do this.”
Her gaze flew up at me, a spark of confusion and suspicion arising.
She was almost too afraid to ask. “What do you mean?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“That night,” I began. “Tell me the truth. Is there truly nothing? No face, no voice, no detail you can remember?”
She shook her head, looking like something beautiful but broken as a single tear slid down her face.
I hated that I had to do this, but I couldn't let my emotions get in the way. Whatever she remembered would help not just her, but me too.
“Think,” I pressed, my voice low and urgent. “Think harder than you ever have before. Are you absolutely certain? Is there truly nothing you can recall from that night? Not a single flash? Not a single detail of the person who was in that room with you?”
She shook her head, her eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears. She gripped her hair, tearing some tendrils loose from the pins that held them.
“No. I really wish I could. But there's nothing. It’s just... blackness,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
The way that she was looking at me, it was a silent plea for help. To help her—save her from the hell she'd suddenly been thrust back into. Only if she knew that the very hands she was seeking for comfort, might be the ones that had caused her pain.
“You have to try,” my voice hardened.
“I’ve told you a hundred times. It is a complete blank,” she snapped, pulling at her hair. “From the time that Damien injected me,” her voice quivered, “there's... nothing. Just the darkness until I woke up.”
I sighed, frustrated that this was yielding nothing. That man was a fraud. I could feel it and was sure of it as the blood in my veins. Damien must somehow be involved in it.
Maybe it was time I dealt with that vermin.
“Why are you doing this now?” Her voice was low and sounded beaten. “Do you… do you believe that man?”she breathed with bated breath.
Even the room held its breath for a second.
“Don’t worry about him,” I replied, avoiding her question. “I'll make sure he won't bother you again.”
I had every intention of making good on that promise no matter what the truth was. Her shoulder blades caught my eye, and I stepped closer, my heart hammering a rhythm of pure dread against my ribs.
“Vera, I need you to do as I say.”
She was surprised, not understanding what I was saying, but she nodded.
I stopped in front of her. “Undo the dress.” Her eyes widened. “Just the top,” I added hastily. Too hastily. “It seems too tight,” I said the most random ash-tasting lie that came to my mind. “You need to get comfortable.”
Confusion flickered across her face, followed by a fleeting shadow of suspicion, but she obeyed.
Her fingers trembled as she worked the hidden zipper at the back.
I stepped up. “Get up. Turn around.”
She got up and did as she was told. I undid the zip, consciously letting my hand graze her naked back. But I remembered nothing else, except how much I still craved this woman.
Once the zip was undone, I hesitated, my heart pounding for fear of what I may see.
Finally, I stepped in front of her to see the heavy fabric sliding down just enough to expose the smooth, moonlight-silver skin of her shoulder.
The world stopped spinning. The air got sucked out of the room. It simply ceased to exist.
There, nestled just beneath the delicate curve of her collarbone, was a small, distinct, crescent-shaped mark. The same image that had burned into the back of my eyelids.
It was undeniable. It wasn't just a possibility anymore. It was a proven reality. Vera is the woman in my memory fragments.
And that possibly made me the faceless monster.
I didn't say a word. I couldn't. I couldn't even look her in the eye. I spun on my heel and stormed out of the bedroom, my heart hammering in my chest as I practically raced down the stairs.
Chauncey was waiting in the foyer, pacing back and forth. He stopped when he saw me, rushing forward towards me.
“Silas! Christ, what is it?” he asked with frantic curiosity. “You look like you’ve seen the devil, himself.”
He looked upstairs. “Is Vera okay?”
“Yes.”
He visibly relaxed for a brief moment, then, “About that man at the ball,” he began, stepping into my path. “Who was he? Was he telling the truth? Is he the one who... is he the father?”
I felt the weight of the whole world settling onto my shoulders as I looked my brother in the eye.
“No,” I rasped, the truth finally breaking me apart. “He's not the father.”
Chauncey let out a breath of pure relief. “Thank God. That's a relief.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing introspectively. “But how can you be so certain, Silas? How can you possibly know for sure that he isn't.”
I looked at my brother.
“Because it’s me, Chauncey. It was me.”