boston {h.s.}

trente-quatre.

Dear Reader,

I have been careful in the words I've said. Punny, I'm sure you've noticed, in my subtle and vaguely repetitive references to the night of our demise. A night, that as I am sure you can recognize given the timing of the narrative taking us now to December 1, is upon us.

It's been less than a year. I immediately set to writing because I wanted to publicize my story. I wanted to reclaim my identity before the world claimed it for me. Walking into this affair, I was known for my brother, for my teaching, for my early orphanage. A Google search of my name now will lead you to an entirely different outcome. Walking out, I was a home-wrecker; a mindless slut. Cruel words I failed to turn a blind eye to surrounded me at every corner.

When I put the pen to paper to tell this story, I knew the paramount importance of telling the story of the infamous night. I spent a significant amount of time compiling the information that happened before because when it comes down to it, that night was not random. Not in the sense that people may think. That is not to say that it was planned, either. Neither Harry nor myself had any prior knowledge of what was coming. We should have. We should have known it would be impossible to keep our secret much longer. We thought ourselves increasingly invincible as we continued to test the limits; succeeding time and time again.

Many people think that they know what happened on that night—or, maybe in the entirety of our tangled, torrid affair. But, in reality, they only have half the story. Granted, it is the half of the story that most matters—the half of the story that makes this story a public story, one worth knowing, one that has extended into the commonplace and household name—but, still, they only have half the story, nonetheless.

Maybe now is the time to remind you that even Hester Prynne is forgiven in the end. In spite of her affair and error, she remained true to herself. I can only hope that I have acted in the same way: strong, kind, proud, and humble. I've never pretended to be something that I am not. I've never pretended to be innocent in this affair, when I am not. I am strong enough now to publicly admit that I was not innocent.

Finally, it is time for me to indulge in you the details of the night. I've already presented you with the good and the bad. Finally, I give you the ugly.

I hope that you can forgive me; understand me. I'm not certain whether there is anything more I can do.

Truthfully Exposed and Honest,

Margeaux Beauchamp.