Chapter 6 - THE LETTER IN THE STUDY
Z
Violet had forgotten how frightening Beckett could become when he was silent.
Not angry.
Silent.
He placed Celeste in the bassinet before turning toward Violet.
"What did you find?"
She walked toward the windows.
Manhattan glittered below them.
"I wasn't looking for anything."
"That's not an answer."
"Your father had asked me to bring him documents for your engagement trust."
Beckett's father, Henry Valiant, had died four months before Violet left.
The old man had been ruthless, precise, and emotionally unreachable.
Beckett had become more like him every year.
"I went into his study," Violet continued. "There was an envelope in his desk."
"Addressed to you?"
"No."
"Then why did you open it?"
"It was addressed to me."
That stopped him.
"What?"
"VIOLET LARU. PRIVATE."
Beckett moved closer.
"What was inside?"
"A contract."
His face darkened.
"What kind?"
"A financial settlement."
Beckett stared.
Violet swallowed.
"Twenty-five million dollars."
"For what?"
"For leaving you."
The air disappeared from the room.
"Who signed it?"
"Your father."
"My father had been dead for months when you left."
"The contract had been written before he died."
Beckett's expression became horrifyingly calm.
"He tried to pay you to end our engagement."
"Yes."
"And you didn't tell me."
"I was going to."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because there was also a letter."
Beckett closed his eyes briefly.
"Of course there was."
Violet returned to the memory.
Henry Valiant's handwriting.
Strong.
Angular.
Merciless.
"He said you were incapable of becoming the kind of husband I wanted."
Beckett's jaw tightened.
"He said you had been raised for responsibility, not intimacy. That marriage could work because marriage was contractual."
Her voice grew quieter.
"But children would destroy us."
Beckett looked at her.
"He wrote that?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"He said you knew."
Beckett frowned.
"Knew what?"
Violet shook her head.
"That's all the letter said."
Beckett turned away.
"My father spent his life manipulating people."
"I know."
"You believed him?"
"No."
"Then why leave?"
"Because one week later, I asked you whether you wanted children."
He stopped.
Violet's voice cracked.
"And you looked me in the face and said you would never be a father."
The memory hit them both.
Beckett had been exhausted that night.
A hostile takeover.
His father's estate.
His mother's pressure.
Violet had asked a simple question over dinner.
Do you ever see us having children?
He had answered instantly.
No.
She had pushed.
Never?
Never.
"Suddenly," Violet whispered, "your father's letter didn't feel manipulative anymore."
Beckett sat down.
For once, he had nothing to say.
"I thought your family had discussed it," Violet continued. "That there was some reason everyone knew except me."
"There wasn't."
"Then why were you so certain?"
Beckett's stare fixed on the floor.
Violet waited.
Finally, he said, "I had a brother."
Her breath caught.
"What?"
"He lived for eleven days."
Violet had never heard this.
"His name was James."
Beckett's voice sounded distant.
"I was six."
He had spent decades refusing to remember.
"My mother was pregnant. Everyone was happy. Even my father."
A bitter smile.
"For approximately five months, our house almost felt normal."
"What happened?"
"He was born with complications."
Beckett looked toward Celeste.
"His lungs weren't fully developed."
Violet's blood went cold.
"Beckett..."
"I wasn't allowed at the hospital."
His hands tightened.
"My father told me babies died every day and crying didn't improve outcomes."
Violet closed her eyes.
"Your mother?"
"Stopped functioning."
Now Violet understood Eleanor differently.
Not better.
But differently.
"After James died, she changed."
Beckett continued quietly.
"My father removed every photograph. The nursery was emptied before she came home."
"That's horrible."
"He told everyone the Valiant family did not display grief."
Violet sat beside him.
"And you decided you never wanted children."
"I decided I would never create something I could lose like that."
The truth hung between them.
Beckett had not rejected fatherhood because he hated children.
He had rejected it because somewhere inside the most controlled man Violet knew was a terrified six-year-old boy standing outside a locked nursery.
"You should have told me," she whispered.
"I couldn't."
"Why?"
"Because then it would have been real."
Celeste made a sleepy sound from the bassinet.
Beckett looked immediately.
His face crumpled for less than a second.
Violet saw it.
"You were terrified yesterday."
"Yes."
"When you touched her."
"Yes."
"Because of James."
"Because I loved her immediately."
His eyes filled.
"And I understood in that exact second why my mother never recovered."
Violet reached for his hand.
Beckett stared at their joined fingers.
Seven months apart.
One newborn between them.
A grave neither had known they shared.
"I am still angry with you," Violet said.
"You should be."
"I'm still not moving back."
"I know."
"And this doesn't fix anything."
"I know."
"But I understand now."
Beckett looked at her.
"That might be worse."
"Why?"
"Because if you understand me, I might start hoping you'll forgive me."
Violet's heart twisted.
Before she could answer, Celeste began crying.
Beckett stood.
"I've got her."
He lifted his daughter.
Then Celeste coughed.
Once.
Twice.
Her face changed color.
Violet shot to her feet.
"Beckett."
His entire body froze.
Celeste struggled for breath.
"Violet."
"Call 911."
He already had the phone in his hand.
May you like
And suddenly, Beckett Valiant was six years old again.
Except this time the baby in danger was his own.
