Chapter 2

"Ellie, darling, Arthur Pendleton is genuinely different," Bea insisted a few weeks later.

We were in her boudoir, a riot of silk and new art.

She was pacing, energetic as always.

"He actually listens. He's not like these other fossils."

Arthur Pendleton. The industrialist. Wealthy, influential, and, according to Bea, surprisingly progressive.

I sat on her chaise lounge, fiddling with a tassel.

"He wants to invest in new technologies, Bea. He even talked about improving factory conditions without prompting."

A seemingly perfect setup.

Bea saw him as an ally, perhaps even a kindred spirit in his own way.

She was encouraging a match.

For me.

"He seems... very keen," I said, noncommittally.

My internal alarms were quiet, but present.

In our past lives, the "perfect setups" often hid the deepest flaws.

"Keen is good, Ellie! He respects intelligence. He said he admires your thoughtful nature."

I doubted Arthur Pendleton admired anything that didn't reflect well on himself or his assets.

But Bea was so earnest, so hopeful for me.

Later, at a dinner, Arthur pledged lifelong fidelity, his hand on his heart, his eyes sincere.

"Eleanor, my devotion will be unwavering, a bedrock for our life together."

The words were smooth, practiced.

I nodded, a polite smile fixed on my face.

Inside, a cynical voice whispered, we'll see.

Bea squeezed my hand under the table, her eyes shining.

She truly believed this was a good thing, a safe harbor for me.

I wanted to believe it too.

A few days later, Bea was explaining a new stock market concept to me, something about "leveraged buyouts," a term that made my 21st-century ears perk up.

"It's like... well, it's complicated, but imagine using a small amount of your own money to control a much larger asset," she tried, then sighed. "Never mind, the terminology here is so archaic."

Then she muttered, almost to herself, "It' s not like we can just Google it."

My breath hitched.

Google.

The word hung in the air between us, an invisible bridge across a century.

Bea blinked, then her eyes met mine, wide with a sudden, dawning realization.

It wasn't just a shared feeling anymore.

It was a shared vocabulary, a concrete slip.

The air crackled.

Her carefully constructed 1900s persona wavered.

I saw the Bea from before, the one who knew Wi-Fi passwords and complained about software updates.

"Bea?" I whispered.

She just stared, then a slow, shaky smile spread across her face.

The confirmation was absolute.

But even as this silent acknowledgment passed between us, a small crack appeared in Arthur's perfect facade.

He'd "forgotten" a dinner engagement with my parents, claiming a sudden, urgent business matter.

His secretary, flustered, had let slip it was a "personal appointment" in a less reputable part of town.

A small thing. Easily explained away.

But the timing, right after his grand pronouncements of devotion, felt... off.

A tiny splinter of unease.