January 23rd, 1890 — Ari & Dionisia's Bartonburg Home
Anyone who knew Dionisia knew that she did not like to cry. It was one of the many weaknesses that was attributed to her femininity, and she hated it. Usually she would stiffen up until the tears finally stopped threatening to escape her eyes, but today she was alone in the comfort of her home, Elliott out cold on the couch across from her, and it was the first opportunity in days that allowed her to process her emotions.
Reuben Crouch knew he had a son now. He knew it was her, even if he didn't know her name. He wanted to know Elliott—Dionisia glanced up from the letter with glassy eyes to watch as her son snored—even though he'd never be able to claim him. Dionisia couldn't deprive him, not after being the one to contact him to begin with.
But Ari didn't know.
Logically Dionisia knew she didn't have to tell him. Following their last major emotional exchange he'd professed that he would file for divorce if it would bring her any semblance of happiness, and that he didn't mind if she had her own life outside of their marriage. Only this wasn't about her. She wasn't bringing Reuben Crouch to her bed, she wasn't writing love letters, none of that.
No, she'd only granted Reuben Crouch access to the little blond-haired boy she knew Ari loved more than anyone. In exchange for taking a pregnant Dionisia as a wife, Ari had been gifted a son—and gifts were not meant to be taken back. It was the root of the whirlwind of guilt and betrayal that hadn't let her rest peacefully for days. She was a terrible wife.
Dionisia leaned forward, buried her face in her palms, and let out a muffled sob.
