The Rebel's Plot

Chapter 12

The night's quiet except for the muffled crashing of waves against the shore. The moon hung low in the sky, bathing the beach house in silvery light as I stood near the window, gazing out at the dark ocean. I crossed my arms, shifting my focus to the Polaroid I took earlier before dinner, where the soft glow of candles illuminated the space, creating flickering shadows on the walls, and my heart breaks a little more.

Just hours ago, I was grappling with the heaviness of my emotions, and now, this beautiful setup feels like a cruel reminder of everything I can never truly have. The table is elegantly set, each detail painstakingly arranged, and I can't help but wonder if Pierre thought of the girl he has been in love with while he prepared this for me. Does he get déjà vu now, reliving memories of their time together? The thought pierces through me like a knife. I feel like crying, burdened by the reality that his love may forever be divided, while I agonise over how many times he's cursed my presence in his mind.

I chuck the photo in the bin and grip the railing hard enough to snap the bloody rail, my eyes locked on the moonlit ripples crawling over the water. God, it's pathetic, isn't it? Having to remind myself—over and over—not to expect a damn thing, not to care who he loves. Not that I give a toss. I don't even want to keep him. I just need the marriage to get away, that's all. Once it's done, he can go—off with whoever she is, the one he really wants.

And me? I'll manage. I always do. My father didn't raise a sodding weakling. I'll get over him—over this pathetic ache, whatever it is—and carry on. I'm seventeen, for Christ's sake. There are other men, and if not, well—who cares? I'll grow old alone, and that'll suit me just fine. Better that than hanging around, hoping for something that was never mine to begin with. I've seen it coming for ages—so what's the point in feeling surprised now?

"Are you alright, Maude?" Pierre suddenly pipes up, standing beside me. I fight the urge to glance at him, clenching my jaw. "You haven't uttered a word since you got home, and you're even trying not to make a sound during dinner."

Is he serious? What does he want me to do? Drop my cutlery? Chew like a ruddy cow? For heaven's sake!

"You know, it feels like just yesterday we were kids playing on the lawn. I remember chasing you with that butterfly net, and you were laughing, running away from me," he says, and I wish I could block out his voice. I want to cover my ears and drown out this nonsense. Why is he bringing this up? Why does he have to reminisce? It's absolutely infuriating.

"Time flies, doesn't it?" he presses, stepping closer. "One moment, we're carefree, and now... well, now we have to face all these expectations."

I narrow my eyes, knowing exactly where this is headed. "Expectations?" I scoff. "Isn't that what life's all about?"

"It shouldn't have to be," he insists, reaching out to touch my shoulder. I flinch, jerking away as if his touch burned me. "I know this is hard, Maude. But it's real. Our families think it's time for us to—"

"Oh, give it a rest, Pierre! I told you, you don't have to stick around. Don't throw it in my face that you already love someone else and that I'm too young for you, as if you're some ancient fossil! You're only twenty-two, for crying out loud! I'm seventeen; it's a five-year gap! You think it's a bloody chasm, but it's not! I get it—you're not keen on marrying me since we grew up next door to each other and you've seen far too much of me. But not now, alright? I swear, I'll give you whatever you want. Just divorce me straight away. I won't make it a hassle for you."

"It's not about that anymore, Maddy." He's always so gentle; it's probably why I like him. He never raises his voice with me, which is rather commendable, really. I wish he would, though—might knock some sense into me. "Can you at least let me finish, love?"

And here he goes again. Love—what a peculiar word. It's meant to be an endearment for little siblings or close mates, but when it spills from his lips, it feels heavy, laden with demands I never signed up for. What should be sweet turns bitter, a relentless reminder of just how one-sided this all is.

He treats me so flipping well, with that charming smile and those gentle words, but it only makes it harder for my heart to accept that he doesn't see me as anything more than a mate. Staring down the reality of it—how love can slip through your fingers like sand or twist into a tangled mess of confusion—drives me to distraction. Why does something that sounds so innocent have to be so maddeningly complicated? What a complete idiot! It's infuriating! I'm done pretending that love is anything but a damn trap, especially when he's so blissfully unaware of the chaos he's causing. I refuse to be his sounding board any longer, trapped in this absurd charade while he remains utterly oblivious to how deeply I feel for him.

"Let me hazard a guess," I clear my throat. "You don't quite grasp it, Maude! You're but a mere nipper!" I endeavor to mirror his intonation.

"Blimey, a bairn? You may say that, but I'm not daft! Do you reckon I'd willingly dive into this? That I'd tie the knot with you if it wasn't for my old man? Come now, seventeen's fair game in Scotland and even in London. Sixteen-year-olds have the nod for a tumble; what's the harm in your neck of the woods in Svarnia or Aquilonia—"

My eyes widen as his hand cradles my cheek and his lips meet mine.

"Your old man's just granted me leave to whisk you off to Europe, and my folks are keen to make your acquaintance," he murmurs, then strides out, leaving me utterly dumbfounded. He just planted one on me!

I touch my lips. It's not our first kiss, but it feels like fire. I bite my smile as I climb the stairs to my room, my head in the clouds. Then, I slap my face—no, this isn't right. I shouldn't be feeling this much. He's merely replicating what I did to him at Oliver's frat house to silence me, and it's rather ungracious of me to feel this giddy. Oh, bless my soul, I really must clear my head.

I roll from side to side on my bed, but he did mention that Philip allowed him to take me to Europe, didn't he? I bury my face in my pillow and scream into it. The scent of freedom wafts through the air, reminiscent of homemade pancakes made from scratch.

The moment I open my eyes, I find myself on the right side of the bed, tucked under a comforter. Behind me is a stack of pillows, and when I peek over them, there's Pierre, fast asleep in pajamas that match mine. I remember we bought them together in Amsterdam—it's funny how some traditions our mothers roped us into stick with us, even as we grow older.

I think back to when we were just children. Mum and his would sit on the porch, weaving clothes for us so we'd always have matching outfits. Those were such good days. My mum, Edinburgh, Biscuit, my home—it all feels so wonderfully close, like a warm memory wrapped around me.

I stretch my arms above my head and dash to the shower, the cool tiles waking me up properly. After a quick rinse, I grab a pair of black linen shorts and a black brassiere, pairing them with a crisp white polo shirt. I take my time blow-drying my hair, taming the mess of it until it falls just right. Feeling somewhat put-together, I head to the kitchen to sort out breakfast.

The morning air carries a slight chill, and I can hear the faint hum of waves outside, which makes the house feel both comforting and restless at once. I move about the kitchen, frying eggs and buttering toast, the scent of coffee curling into the corners of the room. Once everything's plated, I scribble a note on a bit of paper and leave it by Pierre's plate: Gotta have a run out there.

Of course, that's not the whole truth. I've got other plans in mind—something I'd rather keep to myself for now. With a smirk, I slip out quietly, the front door clicking shut behind me.

"Are you even sure about this, love?" Isabella asks, for what feels like the fifth time, eyeing my hair with suspicion. She holds the scissors like they might bite. I'd swung by earlier with food, and we'd just polished off breakfast together, but even a good meal hasn't put her nerves at ease.

"Yes, I'm sure," I say, trying not to sound exasperated. "I want it to my shoulders, and I want a fringe—the short one, halfway down my forehead. Not sure what it's called, but that's what I'm after."

She frowns, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "Bangs. You mean bangs," she says flatly, her American accent making it sound like a warning.

"Yeah, that," I reply with a grin. "Now, chop chop."

Good grief! I've been waiting ages for this. Everything is about to change, and I can hardly contain my excitement—or my dread.