The Weight of Her Name
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As I sat before her grave, the weight of silence pressed down on me. My cheeks burned, flushed with memories and heartache, as my pulse thudded heavy in my chest. I closed my eyes-just for a moment-and there she was.
Evelyn.
A smile crept across my face, soft and aching. I could almost hear her laugh in the rustle of the leaves, feel her presence in the air around me. Then a cool breeze swept across my face, soothing the heat in my skin, grounding me.
But when I opened my eyes, I froze.
She was standing there.
Right in front of me.
For a second, I forgot how to breathe. My mouth parted but no sound came. My fingers curled into fists, nails biting into my palms as confusion and disbelief tangled in my chest.
Was I dreaming? Hallucinating? Had grief finally broken me?
"Evelyn?" I whispered, the name escaping before I could stop it.
The girl blinked, startled, and then-she smiled. That same gentle curve of the lips, those familiar dimples that tore through my soul.
"I'm Jude," she said softly, like she didn't want to scare me. "Aunt Clair says I look just like my mother."
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Caught up in the sins and glamour of high society life, Astoria became the girl no one could trust. In order to return to grace, she must do the unthinkable: find a husband before the end of the year... before her mother chooses for her. With only 3 months remaining in the year, she decided to return to the limelight and reengages of high society life. But with everything she needed to build a future, only one question rings in her mind as she faces her fate: was it worth the price? __ The lighting was dull, but I could still see the shadows of his strong jawline, and the broad, muscular build he hid under his suit jacket. I wished I could see more of him-I wished I could see his face. I was intrigued by him, by the man who couldn't seem to look away. I blinked a few times before turning my cheek, suddenly conscious of the way his hidden eyes bore into me; I could almost feel the intensity of his gaze burning holes into my skull. Maybe he knew who I was; maybe he was one of the people I had crossed, they all looked the same to me. I had too many skeletons in my closet to be able to keep track of who was an ally and who was an enemy. If he was the latter, God help me. It was just the two of us outside now on the once compact Parisian streets. We were completely alone. He could do or say whatever he wanted and no one would bare witness. And yet, neither of us moved, too afraid to disrupt the perfect serenity of the moment. I opened my mouth to speak, but I could not bring myself to utter a word. For the first time, I was scared to know what someone was thinking about me. I wanted to know the type of woman he saw staring back at him. I hoped he saw the woman I was pretending to be: the regal, glamorous, refined young lady I'd been bred to become. But somehow I knew he saw me differently. The man who could not look away could see everything, and I just hoped, for the both of us, that he saw how sorry I was.
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