All This Time

DELETED SCENE: Wolf's POV from Chapter 19 (Part 2)

My throat is dry, scratchy. All I want to do is say her name.

Charlotte's shoulders, which were hunched a moment ago, now roll back into svelte calm and she approaches me, bypassing my stunned sister, who does nothing more than turn around to look at us.

The years of genteel manners instilled into me fail me. I know which fork to eat with, what wine to pair with fish, how to address a duke and duchess, and how to dismiss servants with just a flick of my eyes. The mental search through my repertoire is frantic but I have no clue how to remedy this situation. Mom never prepared me for this.

My life's education seems flimsy, the world I live in a fraud. If I thought Charlotte was a pumpkin-patch Cinderella, then I'm just a paper prince, someone whose veneer of charm and class can be easily ripped down the middle.

She's outclassed us at our own game. I know it. She knows it. Even Graeme, who's on the verge of tears, knows it.

When Charlotte speaks, I don't hear the words. Only when she extends the present to me, the rectangular package that's shaped like a book, do I snap out of it. Her meaning is clear. Her wrist is upturned, the blue of her vein standing out like a crack in white marble. Her voice is steady, but her hand shakes. She's not as composed as she wants us to think, I realize.

"Charlotte," I start to say, gratified when my throat manages the words, when my chest stops constricting long enough for me to breathe.

Her next words slice through me, razor sharp. "You've been so gracious to me while I was a guest in your home. Merry Christmas, Wolfram." She still holds the gift out. Doesn't she realize I can't accept it? Not until she forgives me.

Her decorous manners deliver a cut to my conscience, shame welling like blood. A paper cut for a paper prince, I think, and the irony would make me laugh, but I don't dare.

When she reaches out to grab my hand, I'm so shocked I lose all ability to breathe - again. Fingers slack, I allow her to mold my hand to accept the present. "Charlotte," I attempt to say again, but as though my voice pains her, a flash of something crosses her face and she immediately drops contact with me, taking a step back.

I stand there clutching the gift I'm so ashamed to accept, trying to decipher her expression. She looks like a wounded animal, a face I've seen my sister wearing all too often. It's a sharp caricature of Why aren't I good enough? and stinging betrayal.

And then it's gone.

She's retreated back into herself. And there is nothing I can do to stop it since I'm the one who caused it.

"Merry Christmas," she says again, voice hard with finality. I wonder who she's trying to convince - me or her?

Anger flares. It's my go-to response when I feel defensive, and even though I know I was in the wrong, part of me wonders why Charlotte even came here right now, why she didn't just turn around and leave once she heard us talking. Why did she have to stay and eavesdrop?

The things Graeme said to me in private were just that - private. Listening to someone's private conversation was like reading their diary - you couldn't get upset at words which you were never intended to hear. Charlotte is being unreasonable, a little voice pipes up. No, she's not, I remind the voice.

When did this become so fucking hard? Or maybe relationships were always hard, and I just chose to arrogantly ignore it and do what I'd always done - exactly what I wanted. My shame increases tenfold.

I stand rooted to the spot, gift limp in my hand. Graeme is still in the doorway, a panicked expression on her face. Her eyes are wide and she defensively flashes her palms at Charlotte like she wants her to stop.