Chapter 2

The door opened. Ethan. He smelled of expensive scotch and Victoria's perfume.

"Elara," he slurred, his voice softer than it had been in years. Only when he was drunk did he drop the pretense. "I'm drunk, cher."

He wrapped his arms around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder, a parody of affection. "Chloe's just a spoiled brat. Don't mind her. Make me some of your coffee, the strong kind. My head's splitting."

It was a familiar script. The drunken plea, the feigned intimacy. He'd pull me close, whisper apologies, then take what he wanted in the dark. In the morning, he'd be gone, leaving only his cold disdain.

He never wanted to see my face in the light, the face of the "swamp girl" who knew his darkest secrets.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cole," I said, my voice flat. I kept piecing the letter together. "You'll have to ask someone else."

His hands on my shoulders tensed.

"Elara, Chloe didn't mean it. You know she flies off the handle." He tried for reasonable. "Look, you don't understand business, the pressures I'm under. I need someone... capable. A partner. But I never said I wanted a divorce."

His tone was magnanimous, as if he were bestowing a great favor.

Ten years ago, his family's business was in ruins. His parents, dead under suspicious circumstances. His uncles, circling like buzzards. He'd heard whispers of my grandmother, the Traiteur, the woman who could read the bayous and men's souls.

He came to our small cabin, desperate. Begged her to help him, to use her wisdom, her connections, her... gifts.

My grandmother, seeing the love I already held for this broken, ambitious man, had agreed. She'd poured her life force into his revival, calling in favors, offering guidance that cut through the murky waters of his family's betrayals.

She died soon after, her energy spent.

At her graveside, a simple wooden cross by the bayou, Ethan had knelt beside me. He'd sworn an oath, his voice raw with emotion. "Only Elara. My wife, for life. If I break this vow, may my heart shatter, may my skin peel from my bones."

His uncles had met with unfortunate, swift ends. Ethan had risen, phoenix-like, from the ashes.

But the whispers started. A Cajun girl, uneducated, wasn't fit for the new Ethan Cole. The shame on his face when those words were spoken, I saw it. It never left.

I pulled the last pieces of the letter together. My grandmother's script, elegant even in its age. A Cajun proverb: "*Vieille branche ne retient pas le printemps. Laisse aller pour grandir.*" An old branch cannot hold back the spring. Let go to grow.

I signed the divorce papers with a steady hand.

"Then I'm asking for one," I said, placing the document on the bed beside him. I clutched the fragile, reassembled letter.

"Elara!" He stood, blocking the door. "Think about this. You walk out that door, you're never stepping foot in a Cole house again. What do you have besides me?"

My belly ached, a dull throb now. I pushed past him.

He sighed, a sound of immense weariness. "Alright. Fine. I'm willing to give you another chance. We can have another child."

His eyes scanned me, dismissive. "But not raised by you, of course. A Cole heir needs the best. Proper upbringing. Not... this."

His words, always a judgment on my blood, my home.