Bambitch @scalpdisease - Tumblr Blog

Rating: Explicit

Relationship: Patrick Sumner/Fem Reader Insert

Tags: Doctor/Patient, Pelvic Massage, Hand & Finger Kink, Vaginal Fingering, Penis In Vagina Sex, Unsafe Sex, Medical Kink, Post-Canon, Healing Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Cunnilingus, Medical Jargon, Tragic Backstory, Hopeful Ending, Smoking, Female Reader-Insert, Infidelity, Fingers in Mouth, Quiet Sex, Masturbation, References to Illness, Past Violence, Mouth Kink, Come Swallowing, The Shitty Husband Dies, Wakes & Funerals, Pining, Matchmaking, Sharing Clothes, Mention of Purging, Pillow Talk, Marriage Proposal, Happy Ending

Words: 10,777 (total words: 20,809)

Chapter: 3/3 (read chapter 1 | 2)

read chapter 3 on ao3 here (or below the cut) and the full story here

Just as Patrick promised, his visits are frequent over the following days. Due to your husband’s steadily declining health, however, they do not take the shape either of you expected.

He is actively dying, Patrick shares in the brief moments he is allowed to address you. Impending death, it turns out, requires thorough and careful attention, and so you must cling to the one brief but intoxicating kiss Patrick is able to steal from you over the course of these long, tense days.

You're unready for the chaos, and for Patrick's focus to be wholly devoted to the man you've come to despise most. Catching glimpses of him at work is a thrill, though it's hardly enough to satisfy your longing when you've had much more pleasurable and engaging activities in mind. Perhaps your preparations have not been so complete as you'd thought.

It's all a bit easier to endure knowing that very soon, you'll be returning to the office in Patrick's beautiful flat for your second appointment with him, where you'll have all of the privacy in the world to indulge in every desire with him, free from the prying eyes and listening ears of your household. You anticipate this without a shred of guilt, knowing the good doctor has the power to heal you the whole of you—mind, body, and spirit.

So, when your mother-in-law raps, urgent and uneven, upon the door of your bedchamber early the morning of this next session, dread fills you right to the marrow. You know he's gone.

This is what you wanted, isn't it? But why has it had to happen just now?

You open your door for her, seeing the grief writ upon her face in her ruddy, tear-streaked cheeks and downturned, quivering grimace, and as she sobs, there's no doubting what has happened. Her sorrow is so forceful that you, too, find yourself weeping for her loss, your own relief entirely swept aside for the moment. For the very first time, you embrace her thin, frail figure.

You half-expect her to push you away, to attempt to maintain some sense of propriety, but it's evident she needs this. Perhaps you do as well. Together, you cry, and squeeze, and whisper cooed reassurances. Though you do not share the cause of her grief, you can't help but commiserate deeply.

It's the closest you've ever been with her. The catharsis is immense. Perhaps you do have a friend in this world beyond the handsome doctor who’s reignited your soul and reminded you what joy could look like.

Maybe it's foolish, but you voice this sentiment.

“I am so sorry for your loss, Mutter,” you whisper in your country's tongue. “I, too, am aching. But we have each other now, at the very least.”

You hope this is not awkward. You've never addressed your Schwiegermutter directly before, and are not sure if Mutter is overly familiar, given the strain and distance of your connection.

“Please, daughter,” she answers, your heart feeling tighter even as it lightens. “Please call me Silvestrine. Or even Mama. Your words soothe me.”

“Yes, Mama.” You smile, even as more tears fall. It's been so long since you addressed your own Mama that the name aches even as it warms you.

Her son would have never allowed this when he was alive. In an instant, you recognise the intentional wedge he drove between you, keeping you, who lost your mother in youth, and she, who never bore a daughter, from ever creating a sense of kinship.

Once you've both calmed somewhat, the real work begins. It comes as a relief that Silvestrine is experienced in such matters. She sends out the servants to notify the relevant parties and fetch the needed help.

Meanwhile, the two of you sit and wait, your roles in society immutably altered for the next year, or more, as you enter deep mourning.

The first to arrive is a doctor to issue the death certificate. You observe him from your distance before he disappears into your late husband’s bedroom while wishing things were different—that it could be Patrick, come to see to the man now he was gone, so he could then come to see you—but he is not licenced here to handle this delicate issue.

Next come the dressmaker and milliner, who in stark contrast, come directly to find you and Silvestrine. They bring with them chests of dresses and bolts of fabrics and veils, all in a stark, stifling black you dread the thought of wearing. Only one day would be bad enough. You're to be seen in them for a year, at the very least.

And worse, despite the wealth of choice in fabrics—you’re drawn to the comfortable simplicity of the cottons and wools—the dressmaker will not accept your investment in anything but the bombasine. She says this heavy, silky matte fabric is the proper symbol of grief for a woman of your status, with its dull texture and lack of shine, and that nothing less will do.

It takes a long while for you to be fitted and for the alterations to be made. Come noon, the air is filled with the musical, clanging bells of the nearby church. They toll three times in your husband’s honour, and then three more, and three more. That goes on for an hour, and you're surprised at the sense of reassurance that fills your heart, renewing your courage, even as the dressmaker frets and chides you for not standing perfectly still. Others will know of the death by now. That makes it real. Means that, little by little, you're moving forward.

Despite your protestations, you're coerced into purchasing a few of these dresses, paired with black crape weeper veils that entirely obscure your face. On one hand, you are grateful you'll be masked, and free from feigning some deep emotion on your husband's behalf. On the other, you find the stiff, textured fabric uncomfortable after just moments of wear, and it feels purposefully designed to make everyday matters more challenging than they already are for a grieving widow.

Then, there's the cost. Silvestrine tells you not to concern yourself, that she is ready to pay any price related to mourning dress, but the expense still pains you. The finances are another aspect of your marriage you've never been allowed to oversee.

You know you're entitled, at least, to certain privileges under the law. You hold firmly to that knowledge, understanding this—a place to live, and a meager rental income—may be all you have.

You and Silvestrine secret yourselves away in your ugly new gowns as the commotion continues downstairs, with servants and clergymen organising the parlour for the wake that will begin the following morning, and stretch on for two days. You're not to mingle with the visitors when they come, as new widows and the mothers of the deceased are expected to be overly emotional, and to show unbecoming feeling would be a disgrace.

You also find yourself surprised there is no succinct German compound word for Silvestrine’s position—a mother who's lost her child. Now more than ever, she deserves a title befitting her poise and bravery, in spite of her loss.

It's strange to imagine that the coffin there houses the body of the man who kept you so unhappy for such a time. The lid remains closed, per tradition, which is a small blessing. No acquaintance should have to lay eyes upon his bloating, discoloured corpse. No one who held any admiration for him should have their memory tainted with the truth of his transformed visage.

And Silvestrine, it turns out, does not want to speak of her son. Perhaps the wound of his loss remains too fresh.

She shows a genuine curiosity about you, and you speak conversationally for the first time. Mostly, she's curious about your mother, and the memories of her you hold most dear. She's gentle and contemplative as you speak, and you find any caution you held evaporating as you cry and giggle and share stories you never have before, your heart bared fully.

___

The wake leaves you feeling like a prisoner in your own home, and though she won't admit it, it seems Silvestrine feels the same.

Downstairs, the attendants have been up since before dawn preparing feasts of sausage, potato, and cabbage for his visitors. You keep your distance but maintain a watchful eye over the proceedings. Perhaps, among the quietly murmuring acquaintances and colleagues arrived to pay their respects—some familiar, many more not—you might spy Patrick.

As the hours pass and he does not appear, your disappointment grows.

While you prefer the seclusion to being subject to a barrage of false, unwarranted sympathies, your home feels so changed by these recent events. It's bustling with too much activity, every window flung open so that your husband’s soul does not become trapped forever within its walls.

Similarly, every mirror in every room is concealed under black crape—another preventative measure against a perpetually caged soul. You, briefly, consider uncovering one, as eternal imprisonment would serve him right, but are too troubled by the prospect of his haunting to entertain the notion any further.

Each clock has also been stopped at the time of the discovery of his body. It's maddening not to know the current hour, making you feel stuck entirely out of time, trapped in a kind of limbo.

And it feels strange that at a time in your life that should be rife with challenging emotions, you hardly feel anything at all. It seems all you're capable of is to think, think, think.

Patrick should be here, you think aloud, again and again, despite every law of propriety forbidding him there with you. Only the merciful setting of the sun, and the quieting of the gathering downstairs, can convince you those hours have ticked by.

The days pass this way, your only solace your conversations with Silvestrine. They continue to be more healing, more revitalising, than you would ever have anticipated, but you cannot trust her with the one subject you yearn to discuss most—matters of the heart. The pining slows the time to a crawl, so the days appear to stretch on, and you know not when you'll have the pleasure of gazing upon Patrick again, much less enjoying his company in all the other ways he's demonstrated it can be enjoyed.

Church bells continue to signal the funerary process. On the second day of the wake, three tolls reveal his grave has been dug. The following day—the day of his funeral procession parading through the town—the bells chime for nearly the length of the ceremony.

You do not attend the funeral of your husband, of course. It's not expected of you. Neither does Silvestrine, for the same reason you were unwelcome during the wake. Public emotion is among the most shameful of acts. How dare anyone inflict humiliation upon the family with an outburst of emotion at the loss of a loved one?

It's the ultimate irony—that you're obligated to visibly mourn this death for a long while, and devote yourself completely to serving his memory, but that true feeling is viewed as poison to this process. Even under a stifling veil, your passion threatens to derail the stiff, unfeeling flow of society.

And the reality is that you'd have no difficulty containing yourself, but you simply would not want to be part of the ceremony. You have no wishes to honour his life.

And no desire to observe, but Silvestrine watches what she can of the funeral from a window, the procession sombre yet elaborate, involving more than one horse-drawn carriage on a winding, lengthy route through the town. You can't imagine the cost of such a display, and you wonder how much poorer you are for it, but are relieved at least to have your home empty of strangers.

Once the parade and the tolling bells conclude, your home can finally begin to look like itself again. The coffin, of course, has been removed, and all of the serving tables with their white tablecloths and pewter trays and platters all returned to their rightful places out of sight. Most importantly, the clocks resume, the windows are shut, and the mirrors are uncovered to shine again. The possibility of his soul here no longer lingers, lifting a heavy weight from yours.

That same evening, Silvestrine calls for you to join her in the study for a discussion. She produces a thick stack of folded papers, still enclosed by a red wax seal with some kind of legal coat of arms. She explains that it is her son’s last will and testament, recently probated and delivered by courier. She admits she knows not what it may reveal, but that she'd like to go through it together with you.

Her hands tremble as she cracks the wax and unfolds the many pages included therein, some in your dead husband’s hand on brown parchment, others returned on official stationery in the looping, perfect lettering of a solicitor in response.

You have certain expectations going into this process, so as you sit side-by-side in silence, reading the deceased’s words first, you're astounded at what you find.

Your eyes fill hot with fearful tears reading his letter, which insists you be disinherited, enquiring about which statutes can be referenced to demonstrate you have not performed your wifely duties in bearing him an heir. He finds it particularly egregious you've given him no son, suggesting an even greater affront deserves a punishment of some sort.

It's a struggle to read on, but Silvestrine holds you tight, whispering sweet words of support as she forces you to look at the response letter stating that this is impossible—that the legal code protects you as a spouse and nothing he could have said or done would have kept your dower from you, so long as you remained lawfully wed. Despite his wishes, and his attempts to circumvent the law, you are entitled to a statutory reserve share of the estate.

For a brief moment, you speculate. Had he ever contemplated divorce? It wouldn't have been possible without proof of adultery, and technically, you'd been completely faithful to him up until two weeks prior. You're nearly convinced it was he who drove you purposefully into Patrick's arms—before recognising the man was far too oblivious and buffoonish to ever conjure such a scheme.

The relief takes longer to settle in, bringing along with it more tears. It means you haven't been stripped of the things you'd prepared to depend upon.

He was 15 years your senior, so you'd always anticipated this day would come—if not so soon—and when it did, you'd be assigned a one-third interest in his real estate. It comes with some financial security, through tenant income, and ensures you still have a place to live, even if you have not inherited the land itself beneath the real estate.

He has left nothing else to you in the will. You cannot say you are surprised. Normally, the land title would have passed directly to his heir. Instead, his will specifically leaves absolutely everything else to Silvestrine. You're her tenant now.

She sighs deeply at this realisation as you wipe away what remains of your tears.

“If he'd been successful in removing you,” she whispers, “I would have ensured you were not left wanting, or shown out of your own home. I hope I've not given you that impression.”

“Thank you,” you say. “I fear he prevented me from developing any strong impression of you. I regret not coming to truly know you earlier.”

“You are not to blame, daughter,” she says. “Nor am I. The fault rests solely with him. I hope that we can be family, in spite of his best efforts. As we mourn, we must also look forward, yes?”

“I'd like that very much.”

She inhales, thin and shaky, and you take her hand. A sense of stifling guilt fills you for believing for so long that you were the only one living in a prison of your husband's devising. She was just as trapped, in her own way, by expectation within and without the household.

“Did my son ever speak to you of Conrad?” she wonders.

You acknowledge you know this was the same of his father—her husband—but that he never mentioned him.

“It is a shame he could not establish a greater influence before his own untimely passing,” she says. “He was a truly great man. My only love. Unfortunately, our child took after neither one of us, it seems.”

An, “Oh?” is all you can manage, curious but too polite to prod further.

“We could never tell the boy the truth, of course. That Conrad, a wealthy landowner and I, a lowly commoner, had concealed our left-handed marriage. Had he not stolen a false identity for me, and falsified my records, the child would not have inherited his privileges. It was such a risk Conrad was eager to take on my behalf. It would have destroyed the boy's confidence, his very sense of self, to know it. It's ironic, perhaps, that he became such a pompous elitist.”

You don't know what to say. Even now, you fear speaking unkindly of him to his mother.

“I cared for my son, as a mother must, but I do find his absence to be something of a relief,” she admits. “And I still mourn the loss of my doting husband, but I imagine it is a different kind of tragedy altogether to lose a man who never showered you with the proper devotion.”

“It was a lonely marriage,” you concede. “My feelings now are… perplexing.”

“I imagine they must be. And I must be honest—while I struggled with missing Conrad, I enjoyed a freedom after his death like I never had before. Once the mourning period was over, of course, I could do what I wished with my money. Go as I pleased. Conduct business. I was no longer his property. I hope you come to recognise the same and enjoy those freedoms yourself.”

“Thank you, Mama,” you say, gracious. “I intend to do just that. Although, I do anticipate this year of mourning to be most vexing.” “We will need to keep ourselves occupied then. I've thought about this quite extensively, and I believe it may be in our best interests to live more simply.”

“What, precisely, would that entail?” you ask.

She hesitates before she answers.

“Dismissing the servants,” she finally says, in a rush, as if worried you'll scold her. “They're mostly for show, anyhow, and there will be no need to continue entertaining guests. We can take up the tidying and the cooking. Relearn to look after ourselves. It would be good activity for us, I think. Keep us feeling industrious and useful, while saving money. And the space is so big we could… well, never mind about that.”

While the idea of cleaning the big house doesn't make you jump with joy, you can't fault her logic. It will be good to keep busy, to feel like your work matters, without bleeding your accounts dry in the process.

“Yes, I'm very amenable to that,” you answer.

___

In the morning, you must fulfill your singular public duty as a widow in deep mourning—attending church. This unavoidable social obligation requires multiple appearances per week, but at the very least, your stiff black veil gives you the opportunity to close your eyes and pretend you're elsewhere, or even dream, if you dare it. The supposition stings even more knowing that a tenth of your income will have to go to the church, when religion has never done you any good.

After your hours listening to droning bible readings, at last it's time to return home. One of the servants is waiting for Silvestrine to return to announce the delivery of a letter, and your heart leaps, pounding aggressively, once you realise it's come from Patrick.

She opens the letter with curiosity and reads it aloud in his formal, elegant German. None of what he's written is explicit or romantic, of course, but you feel the affection bursting in every careful pen stroke.

Frau, I cannot express my deepest sorrow at hearing of your family's loss. You and your daughter-in-law have been foremost in my thoughts and prayers, and I hope that any pains, both of the flesh and the heart, are quickly soothed. I also understand why she cannot continue her visits to my practice, though I fear for her health and mental well-being if her underlying issues remain unaddressed. If it is not untoward, I would hope to continue my house calls to attend to the family and see that you are both as well as possible during this difficult time. With the greatest devotion, Patrick Sumner

“That Sumner is such a lovely and thoughtful young man,” Silvestrine says. “Yes, I think we should call upon him to visit soon. Unless you have any objections, daughter?”

“No,” you answer, concealing your eagerness. It would not do to convey just how desperate you are to have him. “I think that would be very beneficial for the both of us.”

___

Next morning, you are surprised at the echoing emptiness of the house, not a maid or attendant to be seen as you make your way downstairs into the foyer. The home is silent except for some light chatter coming from the scullery. Inside, Silvestrine and a single housekeeper are hard at work grating potatoes.

“You're awake, daughter,” says Silvestrine, her voice rich and full of warmth. “I've let most of the servants out. Would you like to prepare the Kartoffelpuffer with us?”

“I'd like to try,” you answer.

You've never helped prepare a meal of any sort, but you're not unwilling to learn. In contrast your mother-in-law, you realise, is not at all inexperienced. She moves as if she's been awaiting this opportunity for years.

It seems you've already missed the hard work of peeling the potatoes, but you're out of your element as you stand over the grating device, like a miniature table with a sharp network of lattices as the surface, to do the coarse shredding. It's not fast or elegant work, as Silvestrine made it seem, but she does not complain about your performance as you take the work off her increasingly arthritic hands.

She praises your help once the potatoes are ready, placing them in a cheesecloth and tightly wringing it to bring all of the liquid into a bowl. She asks what you see. At first, nothing, before you notice the thicker liquid settling at the bottom, and the light, watery juice of the potato floating on top. She ladles away this top layer, keeping the valuable sunken starch before tossing the potatoes back in.

It's your turn again, with no choice but to let the stinging tears flow as you grate an onion into the potato mixture, before Silvestrine generously seasons it all with freshly ground nutmeg, and plenty of salt and pepper, before cracking in a big egg with a vibrant orange yolk. She mixes it gently using her hands until it's all the same uniform blend before wiping her hands.

All the while, the housekeeper has casually been tending to the flame of the stovetop. You cannot imagine it is easy to maintain perfect frying temperature over the unpredictable heat of fire, but you have to admire the way the hot oil in the skillet glistens beside a pot of water, nearly boiling.

You’re also in awe of Silvestrine as she dollops a heaping metal spoonful into the oil, unafraid of the splattering and crackling heat as you flinch from the stove. She continues the process until the mixture is exhausted. Then, with the spoon, she presses each mound of potato mix into a disc, with room around them to spare, the edges browning appetisingly with each passing minute.

This process takes time, so as the Kartoffelpuffer cook, she turns her attention to the now-simmering water. Deftly, she cracks one egg directly in, depositing it perfectly, the sunny yolk intact, to begin to cook. She repeats this process four more times before flipping the Kartoffelpuffer, immediately coming back to fish the beautifully poached eggs out one by one onto a dish with a slotted spoon.

At last, she seems happy with the Kartoffelpuffer, quickly moving the crisp, golden-brown potato pancakes onto another dish layered with a cloth to absorb the excess oil.

Though you didn't do much, you feel quite proud of the result. They look and smell delicious, and you have no doubt they'll taste so as well. It's all Silvestrine’s doing, but your contribution feels significant regardless.

She asks you to collect both plates of the freshly prepared food as she lifts a stack of dishes and handful of cutlery, ushering you into the breakfast room. You're happy to oblige, assisting her in setting the dining table, with each crispy Kartoffelpuffer getting topped with its own poached egg, and each setting a mug for hot coffee.

You're so caught up in the joy of the act that it takes a moment to register you've set a table for five. There's you, and Silvestrine, and…?

Right on time, there's some commotion at the front door. One of the attendants has returned from some duty outside the home, and behind him, Patrick follows, his eyes growing unmistakably wide at the sight of you.

You can't help but stare in return. His beard has grown in more since his previous visit, coming in thickest around his chin and under his lips and sparser up along the jaw. His looks are as captivating as ever, the beard enhancing his handsome symmetry, even if his skin appears rather pale and sickly, glistening slightly with a sheen of sweat.

And it feels so right him to be here you can hardly contain yourself.

“Mr. Sumner!” Silvestrine greets him. “It's a pleasure to see you've accepted my invitation. Come, sit.”

She arranges for Patrick to sit beside you, flanked on either side by the two servants, with Silvestrine sat opposite you both. You and Patrick exchange muted hellos and pleasantries, each trite word sparking between you as you ponder the hundred things you wish to utter to him, the thousand things you wish to do with him in the privacy of a closed room. It takes all of your concentration not to slide into a giddy delirium as Silvestrine thanks him for the beautiful letter and urges everyone to eat.

And the Kartoffelpuffer is as appetising as you dreamed, the flaky texture of the fried potatoes complementing the perfectly runny yolks, the sweet nuttiness of the nutmeg subtle yet essential.

“This is an exquisite meal,” Patrick marvels, his hands the slightest bit unsteady as he cuts in with knife and fork. “Truly exceptional.”

“My daughter here assisted me in making them just now,” Silvestrine says. “She is new to the kitchen, but already shows immense promise as a cook. What flavour!”

You're ready to protest—you’ve had little if anything to do with the flavour—but Patrick speaks next.

“I'm impressed,” he remarks, turning to you with a smile. “If continued practise produces more dishes like this, it seems a worthy endeavour. If cuisine sparks your passion, of course. Diversion is such a critical aspect of health in the wake of such a loss.”

You've nearly forgotten you're meant to be in deep mourning. The burdensome black dress should be enough of a reminder, but neither of you—widow nor mother—feels obliged to hold on to misery as the prevailing emotion when there's so much joy to be had. The servants seem unfazed, while Patrick appears fully invested in your wellness over decorum.

“I've enjoyed it quite well so far, yes,” you answer politely. “I can't say I'm responsible for much of the delectable dish in front of you, but Mama is a patient teacher. I'll happily continue my instruction with her and discover if it fully suits me.”

“I'm glad,” he says. “And you, Silvestrine. How are your spirits?”

“Oh, as can be expected,” she says. “The sadness ebbs and flows. I'd rather not bore you with an old woman's capricious emotions.”

“No,” Patrick insists. “I'd be very much up to the task of listening, if you're keen to speak. Many of my patients have found it inspiriting to discuss topics which would otherwise remain unaddressed or even buried. Like lifting a weight from one's shoulders.”

“Present company included,” you add.

You recall just how healing it was to be truly heard and seen for the first time—everything that followed aside.

Silvestrine considers this before requesting that you and Patrick accompany her to the study. You both follow gladly, and inside, you feel quite alive to be sat next to Patrick on the settee, opposite your mother-in-law, as she discusses the state of her heart of late, holding little back. You both offer a willing ear—and he his soundest professional guidance—and you can swear that by the minute, you can see the colour and health returning to his visage.

After this heartfelt conversation, Patrick offers an apology that he cannot stay, while making a promise to return soon for a proper physical with you. Your sex throbs at the mere mention, dismayed he must leave while deeply pacified by your time together—and eagerly anticipating when you'll see him next. “What a lovely young man,” Silvestrine notes once he's gone. “How lucky we are to have someone like him to nurture us in this time of need.”

“Yes, Mama,” you agree. “We're very, very lucky indeed.”

___

The following day is Sunday, which, yet again, requires you and Silvestrine to spend most of your day in reverent silence in the pews of the church.

Already, you've discovered that the other congregants avoid you both as if death is something they can catch, giving you space to let the repetition of the sermons become senseless noise in your ears as you travel elsewhere in your mind's eye, Patrick accompanying you wherever it takes you.

So, when he takes his seat beside you, recognising you even under heavy veil, you at first believe you're imagining him.

But no, Patrick is very real, his presence sturdy and grounding, and though you cannot politely share even a word with each other here, let alone a surreptitious touch, his willingness to accompany you manages to lift the drudgery of the obligation. This dullness shared is a gift, you think, passing with unexpected haste, to the degree you nearly regret the end of the service, when Patrick must bid you both a quick farewell.

___

Silvestrine surprises you the following morning with a knock upon your bedchamber door.

“You'll find the house empty today,” she explains. “I feel called to the church, and the two remaining attendants will be joining me. I'm sure you'll have no difficulty managing without us for a few hours.”

“Yes, Mama. Thank you.”

“Mr. Sumner should also be by shortly,” she adds, immediately grinning at your reaction. Apparently you're unable to hide your pleasure. “He's been most attentive. He appears so concerned for you, daughter.”

“He's the most thoughtful of physicians,” you respond with a truth. “I believe his treatment will be a boon to my humour. I must thank you for allowing his presence here.”

“I'd be a fool not to,” she says. “Any benefit to you is a benefit to me. And he is rather dashing, isn't he?”

Perhaps mercifully, she closes the door behind her before you get the chance to make your response. She doesn't know the half of it.

___

The time before Patrick’s arrival seems to stretch on indefinitely, an excess of nervous energy beating through your veins as you pace the house in your scratchy and dreary mourning gown.

In reality, he's there in less than a quarter of an hour, bursting in through the front door and slamming it behind him before he pulls you fully into a snug embrace.

“Oh my darling, my love,” he mutters, in English, his lips buried in your hair as he grips you, swaying. “You've endured so very much. How your heart must break.”

“I've missed only you, Patrick,” you tell him. “Needed only you.”

“I should not have waited. I should have been here for you from the moment it was possible…”

“No,” you insist. “You've done everything right. That we can even be alone here now is proof of that.”

You part gently, one of your hands rising to stroke his beard, the thick hairs wiry but soft under the pad of your thumb.

“What can I do for you now?” he demands. There's a hunger in his icy blue eyes. “What do you need? I’ll give you anything. Anything at all.”

“Take me to my room.”

He does what's requested, one hand scooped at your lower back, the other under your knees hiding beneath your skirts, to lift you and carry you to your chambers, laying you upon your bed.

“Now?” he barks, impatient.

You know what you want. It's everything you were denied the last time you enjoyed each other.

“I just need you inside me Patrick,” you beg. “Please.”

There’s a tremble to his eager nod. In fact, he's tremoring all over.

“Is there a particular way you'd like me?” he wonders, with a hard swallow.

“Is it wrong to think you'd look very fine fucking me in your shirt and waistcoat, with your trousers dropped around your thighs?”

“No,” he whispers.

He throws his braces from his shoulders, drags his beautiful knitted jumper off with one strong hand, and tugs his trousers down from his waist. Next, he frees himself from his drawers, so hard and ready for you that being made to wait another minute will make you scream.

“And would it be sick of me to wish to make love to you wearing nothing but your gloves and stockings?” he says, licking his lips.

“No, I'd find that very tasteful. Now, take all this off me—everything but the gloves and stockings.”

He’s careful with each thick funereal layer, his deft surgeon’s hands making quick work of ties and clasps and buttons until you're undressed precisely to his liking.

Then, he drags you to the edge of the bed, pulling your legs in their stockings over his shoulders, and without any preamble slides all of himself into your slick, wanting cunt, bottoming out against you.

You cry out together in unison, and the first intoxicating taste of what you missed so badly is even more blissful than you remembered.

Patrick’s hands fall under your ass, gripping you to pull you even closer to him, so there's no distance remaining between your bodies. Instead of working you, thrusting in and out, he remains buried deep inside you, rocking his hips to generate a different kind of building pressure, leaning over you so his twitching friction rubs your clit as your gasps and moans mingle in the air.

“Thank you, Patrick,” you manage to call between hitched breaths. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

As far as you are from the peak, there's something that feels complete about this kind of pleasure. Together like this, you are whole and free, like you've never been.

“I’ve thought of you every minute,” Patrick admits, his eyes in a half-lidded daze as he rolls his hips, lips held slightly open. “Of your sweet voice, of your cleverness, of burying my cock deep into you and never, ever leaving.”

“I've touched myself each night imagining just this,” you admit to him. “My visions of you have kept me sane.”

“And I, you. But nothing, nothing I can conjure in my mind's eye comes even close to the real thing.”

“We're not meant to be kept apart this long.”

And then his cries begin to grow closer together, his body twitching with such a frenzy that you know he can't last much longer. You don't want him to.

“Don’t you dare slow, Patrick,” you warn him. “I need to hear what you sound like filling me up.”

“But, you haven't finished…”

“Please, my love. I need this.”

Dutiful as ever, he obeys, his yelps of pleasure with those final rough pumps into you like music to your ears even as his magical motions cease.

Even as he softens inside you, he refuses to let you go, lingering in place as he holds your bodies together.

“I'm afraid I won't be able to go again today,” he says. “An unfortunate side effect of my past opiate misuse. But just tell me how I can best please you. I’ll do whatever you ask.”

“You’ve pleased me plenty. I'm not looking for release. Not now. I only want you.”

“Oh, you torment me,” he whines. “First I’m not allowed to come to you. Then, I'm denied the chance to make you come undone.”

“Yes, and you’re being very brave about it,” you tease.

Finally, he pulls out, helping you to clean up the thick white seed he's left inside you before sitting beside you on the bed.

He takes your hand, his beard brushing it as he plants kisses down its length to your forearm.

“You know, I've been rehearsing all the things I've dreamt of telling you,” he says. “It all felt so important. But now I'm here with you, everything else falls away. This is all that matters.”

“I feel the same. Why can't we just stay like this forever?”

It cannot be—not now. The mere thought gives you a deep chill, and you shiver.

“Are you chilly?” he wonders, placing warm, steadying hands on your bare shoulders. “Let me help you get dressed.”

“No!” you blurt out, eliciting a puzzled look from Patrick. “I only mean I'm sick and tired of wearing frumpy, irritating black day in and day out on behalf of a man whose death I celebrate.”

Patrick looks about the room.

“I understand,” he says. “Perhaps this will do?”

He hands you his soft jumper. It’s the colour of rich dark chocolate with a gorgeous corded texture, and it smells like him—of chlorine and sweet tobacco.

You throw it on without hesitation, safely blanketed in its warmth and woolliness. Wearing it feels nearly as good as an embrace, and you can't resist touching the sleeve to your cheeks and lips, luxuriating in the texture—in something that belongs to Patrick, freely given.

“You’ve never, ever looked more beautiful than you do now,” Patrick mutters, nothing short of awe in his voice.

“I've never been happier than now,” you say. “And that's all thanks to you.”

___

There's nothing like having your own home to yourself with Patrick, stepping through it without a care in nothing but his jumper, gloves, and stockings as he makes you tea.

“You're looking much changed today,” you remark from the dining table as he prepares the stove for a kettle, admiring his robust complexion and the certainty of his movements. “Had you been feeling unwell?”

“I was rather poorly, yes,” he answers. “I debated whether it would be wise to come by on Saturday in my condition, but very little could be done at that point to hold me back from you. It was the correct choice, it seems.”

“What ailed you?”

He pouts his lips, considering your question.

“It sounds preposterous, but I believe I've developed a new chemical dependency. Upon you. Upon the feelings you provoke in me. I craved you so badly I made myself sick. I'm lucky even the most minute doses of you seem to quell it.”

“We’ll have to be careful with that compulsion,” you say. “But I intend to give you a taste anytime you need me.”

He steps over to you and leans, his lips landing on yours. A sound escapes them like kissing you is so pleasurable he can't quite stand it. You recognise the sentiment in the touch of his soft lips and the pleasant friction of his beard.

“But I am not the one who requires consolation. You are braving every challenge with such ferocity,” he remarks. “A year is a very long time to be excluded from society, expected to do nothing but cloister yourself in grief. How are you faring?”

“Poorly, at first. Beautifully now. So long as I can have you, I think this will be a rather easy time.”

“I am relieved to hear it. I wasn’t aware you got on so well with your mother-in-law.”

“I didn't. Our close kinship has been a recent development, and such a welcome one. I'd wither away without her support, and yours.”

“And you're comfortable,” he asks, “with all that has been entailed to you?”

“Yes,” you answer. “I do not require much. I am guaranteed a place to live, and a suitable income. Beyond this, is seems, Silvestrine is insistent upon helping me.”

“Good,” Patrick says, nodding. You believe he plans to say more, but those words remain unspoken as you fall into silence.

“Did you attend the funeral procession?” you wonder instead.

“I did not,” he answers. “I wouldn't wish to even pretend to pay him my respects.”

“You could not have given a better answer,” you say.

___

You pass the hours comfortably in the parlour, sipping your tea and dining on fruit as you pry more deeply into each other's lives. You hope he is as enamoured with every bit of knowledge of you as you are of him. Your thorough understanding of him feels like a kind of power.

Anticipating the return of Silvestrine and the others, you begrudgingly remove Patrick’s lovely jumper and don your dreaded black dress again, though he carefully folds the garment and tucks it away for you in a chest in your room, so you can keep it close.

Then, it's back to the main room. You're still having a lively conversation with Patrick when everyone enters, and he stands and bows to greet them.

“I take it you had an enlightening time,” Patrick suggests.

“Yes, very.” Silvestrine smiles. “But perhaps not so enlightening a time as my daughter. See how she glows.”

You watch as Patrick’s cheeks flush, matching your own blushing heat. Perhaps you are too obvious, but Silvestrine’s outward joy for you is too sincere to deny.

“She responds very well to care,” Patrick deflects. “You know, I'd be delighted to see to you, too. I think an examination could be of great benefit, and it would please me deeply to know you're both as well as you can be.”

“Oh, I'm being mindful of our money matters for the time…”

“This would be free of charge,” he says. “For the both of you. Frankly, for the ease of my own heart, I must insist.”

This was something you hadn't considered. You're so unused to handling money matters, and are grateful for his generosity. Perhaps it's to be expected, but you don't see yourself in a position to make any demands.

“Well, then I must accept,” she concedes, matter-of-factly. “Give me only a moment and I will call you to my chambers when I am prepared for you.”

You thank Patrick quietly once she has strode off.

“As I said,” he reiterates, “I will be much happier knowing you're both in good health.”

He goes silent before adding, in a conspiratorial whisper, “And, between us, I have come concerns.”

You have no time to ask more before he's summoned upstairs. He spends a long while in his exam with her before finally, he emerges, and must soon take his leave of you.

“That Sumner is clever, but he has some strange ideas,” Silvestrine confides with you later during a private conversation in the library.

“Yes,” you agree, “but I haven't seen him miss the mark yet.”

You're certain you're the only of his patients he sees fit to lavish with multiple orgasms, so it's hard to rein in your curiosity.

“He's urged me—quite enthusiastically—to cease my use of calomel.”

You're familiar with the compound—mercury chloride—a powerful purgative some have hailed as a miracle drug.

“For what purpose was it prescribed to you?”

“For everything, dear. It's meant to be a panacea. For warding off consumption, flu, cancer—anything that might someday ail me—by purging the disease. But he says it's causing me to waste away. Rotting my teeth. And that the mercury within is toxic. Madness-causing even. I cannot believe he is serious.”

“I am sure his position is informed, Mama,” you say, hopefully not too firmly. “I am inclined to trust him.”

“Oh, and he was so gentle too.” She wrings her hands. “Do you really think that it is as he says? That preventative means could do so much damage?”

“If you are not at great risk of those illnesses it is preventing, yes. And especially if such prevention is not as efficacious as some might insist.”

“And am I growing rather thin and weak, as he's suggested?”

“That is for you to say, Mama. Perhaps it would do to quit your health tonic, just for a time, to see if your condition seems improved?”

“That is precisely what he has suggested to me. Perhaps I will follow the doctor's orders, then. But if I take ill, I shall have a few choice words for him.”

“As will I, but I don't think we need worry ourselves,” you share. “He wishes only for our wellness.”

“I suppose so,” she concedes. “On another, mostly unrelated matter, I have something I'd like to discuss with you.”

She spreads the papers of some form of legal document, as well as a schematic on a rolled parchment.

“I have learned more of the managerial stake in my son’s railway company left to me in his will,” she explains. “Now, I am in no state to step into his occupational position, but am to be considered something of a silent partner, for the time being. He's left it to me to interpret his wishes and vision for the company, and I must say I feel completely out of my depth.”

“I, too, am ignorant of such things,” you say. “But I am happy to attempt to aid you if you wish me to.”

“Yes, yes, that would be such a help,” she answers, with a sigh of relief. “An old woman like me can't hope to learn these things—and at such an inopportune time! A foreman will be coming and going to bring me the relevant paperwork and authorisations, explaining the best he can. I would so value your assistance.”

“Could it not be delegated to someone with the experience and insight to handle the work appropriately?” you wonder.

“Not for the first year,” she explains. “If I want to be able to sell the stake, that is. Which I very much do.”

“I see. Well, in that case, I would like to begin reading these materials directly, to familiarise myself with what is being asked of you.”

“Be my guest,” she says. “I find it all rather dull and indecipherable, but you've always been the keener mind. I shall bid you good night and leave you to it.”

Silvestrine is not wrong. At first, the work does seem as unknowable as it is tedious. The financials are a bore, the decisions made following no clear rhyme or reason, while always resulting in a striking uptick in profit. It's here that you notice an emerging pattern. Actually, all of this might be very interesting indeed.

___

Patrick visits twice more for exquisite homecooked meals—a collaborative effort courtesy mostly of Silvestrine—over the next seven days and sits with you in church on Sunday before it's your favourite day of the week yet again.

You're already dressed in nothing but his jumper when he arrives, and he's ready to lift you from your bare bottom, pulling him close with his caressing hands, so you can wrap your legs around him as he kisses you, ravenous and moaning all the while, like he's already pulsing inside of you. His kisses are insistent, like he needs you to breathe, like without this his heart will cease its beat, the many minutes melting away under his welcome barrage.

“What do you desire, my love?” he finally asks, panting, between kisses.

“I desire your impatience,” you say. “For you to do with me just as you please, without hesitation.”

“Then I wish to tease you in novel and perplexing ways,” he says, “as you have teased me.”

“I would like to see you try,” you goad. Again, he carries you to your bedroom and deposits you upon the bed. This time, he discards every layer of clothing—including a new cream-coloured cable-knit jumper—until he stands before you wearing not a stitch.

You're quite surprised when, again, he pulls your body to the edge of the bed, and even more shocked when, thick cock in hand, he chooses not to penetrate you, but instead to run its pink head along the soaked seam of your cunt.

He draws back before he thrusts again, fucking between the lips vigorously without entering you, and forcing you to call out when he grazes your throbbing clitoris.

“That feels good, does it love? Allow me to give you more.”

With his hand, he presses his bell-end to your clit, applying pressure in the perfect, tiny circles he knows you love so much. The sensation improves upon any digit, any tongue, bathed in your own wetness.

“Patrick, please,” you cry.

“Not until you’re coming for me,” he negotiates. “I know you can.”

You're certain he's right. His sensation is shocking in its rightness, the thickness of him tensing against you, toying with your sensitive bud.

For a moment, you wonder why, but it matters not as you learn to embrace this strange new pleasure of the flesh and then begin to feel the first overwhelming convulsions of your orgasm.

Patrick, too, must see its approach, immediately shoving his cock inside of you and replacing its motion against your clit with a coaxing thumb, stuffing and stretching you as you arrive with the buck of your hips and an uncontainable growl.

His rapid yet thorough strokes have you spellbound for the duration of your extended climax, but once it's run its course, he pulls out of you with a wicked smile.

“Patrick!” you whine. “Must you taunt me so?”

“I think I must,” he says, again running the pressure of his thumb along your cunt’s slippery crease. “After I've been deprived so badly of making you scream these last weeks. I might be obliged to conduct a test to see which method induces the greatest volume. If you're a willing participant, of course.”

“Yes, Patrick,” you beg. “Please don't keep me waiting any longer.”

“Of course, my love,” he says, in a painfully slow, drawn out manner. “First, an old favourite. The means of your first orgasm, digital stimulation of the pelvic interior…”

You're ready to tell him to stop wasting time when he slides two fingers inside of you, the gasp you emit promptly replacing the urge. It's evident he's done wasting time, immediately locating your most sensitive pleasure point and applying the work of his skilled fingers.

“Yes,” he coos as you tremble and cry out. “Show me how good this feels. You deserve all the goodness in this world, my love. It's all inside of you already. Just let me unleash it. That's it. That's it.”

Patrick knows your body better than you do at this point—knows when you're nearly ready to come—and his tender reassurances relax and rouse you at once, a self-fulfilling prophecy as you clench around his sturdy hands, his name the subject of your every heaved breath.

“Very good,” Patrick says, his pupils grown so wide you can hardly see the blues of them. “Nice and loud for me. But let's see if we can do even better.”

Without warning, he drops to his knees, his thick, round tongue greedily lapping up your dripping wetness, licking you clean, before he teases your pussy lips with kisses and nips of his teeth. Finally, he lavishes your clitoris with hard, fast flicks, making you twitch with a shaking sigh.

He moves in closer, tickling all of you with his beard, his hands gripped around your thighs for purchase as he works, his tongue moving up and down, or in tiny circles, and occasionally sucking you gently, drawing such a sharp, immediate pleasure you let out a hiss.

The only shame is that he can't speak and eat you at once, his only sounds the hums of delight that buzz against your pulsing clit. Perhaps that means you should make use of your voice in his stead.

“God, Patrick, I love that tongue,” you moan. “Show me what your fat, thick tongue can do, darling. Yes! You are so good, my love. Make me lose control with nothing but that perfect tongue and those soft lips—oh Patrick, I'm coming, I'm coming!”

When it happens he's swirling his tongue on you just so, and he keeps that particular motion on all the way through until the pulse running through you has run its course and your shaking has mostly subsided.

He kisses your inner thigh several times before he stands before you again, wild-eyed and grinning.

“Even louder that time,” he says. “Marvelous. Now, let's see how much noise you can make when I make proper love to you.”

“Let's. I've been patient enough.”

And it's the most wonderful feeling in the world to have his weight bear down on you, take in his fullness when he drives himself inside you, while kissing you passionately all over—hundreds of tiny whimpered kisses worshipping you from your lips to your neck and your chest and back again. One hand massages a breast while the other holds him upright, and then his head is buried in the bed beside yours, using both hands to lift your bum so he's hitting just where he needs with each shallow stroke.

“There it is,” Patrick says, gasping between strokes. “It truly is my greatest pleasure to make you come. So, so beautiful. And it's so, so close. God, I'm so lucky. God, I'm so very lucky…”

You interrupt him, shouting that you're coming again, nothing but electric bliss radiating through you and euphoric calls as his jagged and deep thrusts and irresistible whine tell you that you've finished together again. This feels like the magical, natural order of things.

Patrick kisses you yet again on the lips, deep and lingering, this time, before he hesitatingly lets you go.

“Just as I thought,” he whispers. “That method won out. By quite a large margin.”

“We'll, as much as I enjoy the other activities we practise together—and hope we never cease them—there's nothing I love quite like making love with you.”

“We're on the same page about that, at least.”

And you can't get enough of the time you're allowed to lay out on the bed with him, holding each other close, face-to-face, as he trails his fingertips down your soft skin, up your arm, down your belly, and back again.

Your own hand goes to the deep creases in his forehead, tracing the lines there. You know that look. He's thinking too deeply about something.

“What has you so preoccupied?” you ask him.

He sits up, clearing his throat. It's unexpected for him to be so serious, so suddenly.

“Our time together has brought me a peace I no longer believed possible,” he says. “I must ask, are you happy? With me?”

“I've never been asked a sillier question,” you answer. “You make me the happiest I've ever been, when my circumstances should be the farthest from it.”

“And when you imagine a future…”

“You are in it,” you interrupt him. “You are it.”

He pauses, taking this in.

“And in this—our—future, do you envision us wed?”

“I haven't had the opportunity to think that far ahead,” you admit, after a brief hesitation. “I will be very pleased so long as we can be together. But yes, I would be blissfully happy if you were to be my husband.”

His wide smile shows his sharp white teeth, but still there’s an uneasiness in his heavy eyes, lending something to his visage that troubles you.

“I can see why you might imagine I'd be uncertain about this,” you say, before he can object. “I've just been set free from subordination in such a miserable marriage. I'm stuck with the duties of a widow until the world at large has decided I've grieved enough, but even then, the marriage would grant me certain societal benefits moving forward. I would give it all up if it meant the two of us would be permitted to walk hand in hand in the street, without fear of ostracism and ridicule.”

“I am not so rich as he was,” Patrick whispers. “Would it be selfish of me? You'd not have the same comforts you're accustomed to, and I imagine your dower will revert if you remarry…”

“That would be a small price to pay.”

“You'd live with me, of course.” He smiles. “And I'd provide for you as well as I can.“

“That would be a most marvelous life, I think.”

“In that case,” Patrick says, taking both of your hands between his, “would you do me the greatest honour of becoming my wife?”

“Yes,” you shout out, before he's even completed his sentence. “Nothing could please me more.”

How long has it been that you've ached for a marriage based on love, and intimacy, and authentic connection? To receive care and affection, over control and ownership? To be eternally bound, attached to Patrick in a manner that is open and acknowledged rather than confined to secret meetings, feels so right and fair you can hardly believe it's reality.

You'll have to wait, of course. A minimum of nine months is essential in order to rule out pregnancy and inheritance scandals, while at least a year’s delay is customary. It seems so far off, and yet close enough to make your heart race with anticipation.

“We'll have to plan a wedding,” Patrick says next.

“Perhaps something quiet and cosy,” you suggest. “We don't have much in the way of friends and family.”

“We do not,” he agrees. “It is a pity we cannot marry immediately. I hope it is not presumptuous to say that the moment you agreed, I began thinking of you as my wife. What say you to that, Mrs. Sumner?”

“I say that I love the way you think, husband.”

___

It's later, when you're taking tea with Silvestrine, that she changes the topic from that of her favourite childhood biscuits to your late husband.

“My boy worked to make your life quite unhappy,” she remarks.

It's the truth, but even now, you'd prefer to avoid saying anything that may come across as disrespectful or a lack of appreciation.

“And you are still so young,” she continues. “And still beautiful. I hope you don't think it too late for yourself to find the right match.”

“You mean remarry,” you answer, as coolly as you can manage.

“I do. I understand that second marriages are not respected with high esteem, that many think them just a shadow of a ‘true’ first marriage, but I believe that's a frivolous reason not to seek out a second chance.”

“I agree, Mama. I think I should keep an open mind.”

This is especially true given your complete lack of a spiritual connection to the man.

“May I speak with you plainly?” she wonders.

“Yes, of course.”

“Based on your behaviour, I can assume Mr. Sumner has been nothing but entirely professional with you,” she says, “but it's plain to see the manner in which he lights up when he's with you. And your health seems to flourish under his watch. Would you consider entertaining him as a suitor?”

You go still, wondering just how much it is wise to reveal.

“He is very kind,” you answer carefully. “Intelligent. Passionate about his work. And yes, handsome. But most importantly he has treated me with such respect and dignity. Helped me find my strength. At the appropriate time, yes, I would be happy to consider him.”

“I must admit, I have been meddling,” she adds. “I’ve spoken with him and discovered he is a very eligible bachelor. He's not the type to believe that a young widow is any man's leftovers, and though he has not confessed it, I am certain he fancies you.”

So Silvestrine is playing matchmaker now. You suppress a giggle at the thought. It's best to continue allowing her to believe this was all her idea.

“It would be very pleasing to me if you are correct,” you say. “Would you be kind enough to encourage him, if you can? Not directly , of course…”

“You're right, daughter,” she says. “It's very early to discuss such things. You must think me so greedy, planning to get you out of the house, and end your dower…”

“Not, at all,” you insist. “I find it romantic. And, if all goes accordingly, he is not a poor man, and I will not go wanting. Perhaps it isn't too late for me. And then you will not feel burdened to keep this great big house on my behalf.”

You've noticed her fussing over it. The house is far too grand for the two of you, and you know she only tolerates the frustrations of its maintenance because the law entitles you to reside there.

“You two will make a very fine and happy couple,” she says, with a mischievous look.

“I do hope so.”

___

Thanks to Silvestrine’s plotting, you and Patrick are allowed additional time alone each week, and you continue to make the most of it, allowing her to believe herself some manner of romantic mastermind all the while.

Today, after some much-needed time on top of him in your bed, you dress yourself in his forest green jumper before directing him to the library, promising a surprise.

You're not sure what Patrick is expecting. A gift in the form of a book? An attempt at more sex on a stack of old volumes? What you have to show him is much more elucidating.

“This is proof,” he says, gasping as he riffles through the documents you've organised into careful stacks. “Of fraud, extortion, bribery, even murder. So thinly veiled it's evident at a glance. How on earth did you get your hands on this?”

“I'm effectively a co-partner of my late husband’s company,” you explain. “A foreman brings all of this to us to guide the most prudent business decisions possible. I've simply taken notice of other details.”

His jaw clenches and his hands ball into fists as he reads on.

“You’re as furious as I am,” you state the obvious. “But I'm very glad to have this knowledge, because it means we can put a stop to these evil men and bring them to justice.”

“Justice?” he baulks. “Do you propose we go on a murder spree? Because I cannot do that again, and I will not bloody your innocent hands with such violence…”

You're not expecting his passion, his protection. It only enamours you to him more deeply, and you are relieved that is not the only resort.

“Not at all,” you say, your voice softened to calm him. “We will bring these evils to light. Reveal the proof of their misdeeds and make them face the repercussions. And if that is not enough, we shall make arrangements to have them uncover their own corruption through pride and ego. Trick them into false dealings and recover what they've taken from those of whom they've taken advantage.”

“It would be very satisfying to see the expressions on their faces as they fall from grace,” he admits.

“And even more so to see their victims get what they're owed.”

“What of your late husband’s corruption?” Patrick wonders. “The insurance fraud. Would that be brought to light as well?”

“Only once Silvestrine is able to sell her stake in the business. Once her future is secured.I won't allow this to bankrupt her.”

“You have always been a secret dreamer, haven't you?” Patrick teases you with one of his widest smiles yet. “It's one of the things I love most about you, that lovely mind full of wild ideas. Yes, Mrs. Sumner. I will happily dedicate myself to your plan of righteous vengeance.”

“I knew you would, husband. Now, help me decide which of these obscenely rich and morally bankrupt bastards we should dethrone first.”

Trending Blogs

Last Seen Blogs

Bambitch