My General Mother Ruined Me For My Cousin—Then Regretted It Too Late Chapter 09
My mother raced back to the estate. My wing was empty. Closets bare. Nineteen years of my life reduced to dust.
She grabbed my father. “You let her go? You let Helena take her? People will talk.”
“They’re already talking. Helena sent a formal invitation. Mia said yes. What do you want me to do—lock her in?”
“She said yes?” My mother’s voice cracked.
“She said Helena has shown her more genuine care in one year than you managed in nineteen.” He paused. “You failed, Victoria. The one role that should have been the easiest thing in the world.”
The Blackwood estate was nothing like the cold military precision of the Hart household. Helena had prepared a suite of sun-filled rooms. Soft blue and cream. Fresh flowers every morning. The thermostat actually worked. There was always hot water.
On the bed lay a hand-stitched quilt—ivory silk, embroidered with birds and vines so delicate they must have taken years. Helena sat down beside me.
“I had a daughter once. She would be about your age, if she’d lived. I made this for her wedding.” She smoothed a stray thread. “She died young. The anniversary falls on the same day as a diplomatic event I’m required to attend. One year, I slipped away to hold a private memorial. Someone nearly found me. You covered for me. Helped me find a quiet place. Never told a soul.”
I blinked. I was fifteen. I’d seen her crying behind the hedgerows at a state reception. I’d just… stayed.
“I wanted to take you home then,” Helena said. “But you still had a mother, and I had no right. And now you’re marrying my son. You’re my daughter, in every way that matters.” She cupped my face. “If Damien ever treats you with less than everything, you come straight to me. This house is your home. I am your family.”
I leaned forward and buried my face against her shoulder. The tears came—not the bitter, lonely tears I’d been crying into my pillow since I was eight. Something else. Something warmer.
The wedding was held at the Blackwood estate outside D.C., with Montana wildflowers flown in. September. Sky so blue it hurt to look at. Damien at the end of the aisle, looking at me like I was the answer to a question he’d been asking his whole life.
Before the ceremony, he found me in the garden. Just the two of us. He didn’t say much—he never did. He just took my hand and said, “You are not a burden. You are my choice. Every day. Starting now.”
My father walked me down the aisle. His arm was steady. His eyes were red.
My mother didn’t attend. She sent a gift—a diamond bracelet from her grandmother—but she stayed away. I didn’t know whether to be grateful or devastated. Maybe both.
Two days later, Damien and I boarded a private plane for Montana. My father saw us off—one hand on Damien’s shoulder, a wordless exchange between two men who understood each other.
My mother stood at the edge of the tarmac. Far enough away that I could pretend I didn’t see her. She didn’t approach. She just stood there, wind whipping gray-streaked hair across her face.
I didn’t wave.