Chapter 28 #2
In their bedroom—his bedroom, she corrected herself—she moved mechanically.
Her traveling dress from the wardrobe. Her grandmother’s book from the bedside table.
The hair comb Theodore had given her last week, silver and delicate with tiny emeralds that matched her eyes, which she left deliberately on the dresser where he’d see it.
Let him remember that he’d once cared enough to notice the color of her eyes. Let him remember what he’d just cast away.
Her hands were shaking when she reached for the emerald-green gown hanging in the dressing room. The one he’d chosen because he’d remembered her favorite color. Because he couldn’t forget a single word that left her mouth, he’d said during that waltz.
“Because wanting you is dangerous.”
She’d thought that meant he wanted her too much, that his desire frightened him because of what had happened to his family. She’d thought his withdrawal was protection, not rejection.
She left the gown where it hung.
Hoofbeats sounded in the drive as servants loaded her trunk.
Cressida descended the main staircase, spine straight, refusing to look at the places they’d laughed together.
The window seat where he’d found her reading.
The corridor where he’d kissed her breathless against ancient stone.
The dining hall where they’d argued over estate business and somehow ended up in each other’s arms.
All of it was meaningless. All of it was nothing but a contract being fulfilled.
Theodore stood at the front door.
“Don’t go.” His voice was rough. “Please. I spoke in anger—”
“You spoke the truth.” She pulled on her gloves with deliberate care. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? Push people away when they get too close? Prove to yourself that everyone will eventually leave, so you might as well drive them out first?”
His face shuttered. “You don’t understand—”
“No.” She met his eyes, letting him see everything she felt. “I don’t. Because understanding would require trust, and you’ve made it abundantly clear that trust is something you’re incapable of giving.”
“That’s not—”
“Despite everything I’ve given you, despite the weeks we’ve spent learning each other, despite the promises we’ve made in the dark…” The words came out harder than she had intended, but she was beyond softness now. “You still can’t trust me.”
“This isn’t about trust.” His hands had curled into fists at his sides. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I’m not asking for anything anymore, Theodore.” She stepped past him into the afternoon light. “That is my point.”
The carriage door stood open. Cressida climbed inside without looking back, without waiting for whatever final words he might offer. The driver closed the door with a decisive click.
As the carriage lurched forward, she let herself look out the window one last time. Theodore remained on the steps, utterly still, his face carved from the same stone as the castle behind him.
She wanted to remember him like this. Wanted to sear the image into her memory so she would never again make the mistake of thinking he could change.
She’d told him she could wait, that patience was how people learned to trust each other.
But she’d been terribly wrong. Because the man standing there—the man who’d held her so carefully in the dark, who’d laughed at her terrible puns and remembered every word she’d ever spoken—had just told her she meant nothing.
And perhaps the cruelest irony was that she’d believed him capable of love precisely because he’d been so honest about his inability to feel it. She’d thought his honesty meant he could be reached, that beneath the walls and the coldness was someone worth fighting for.
She’d thought his walls were protection. She hadn’t realized they were simply the truth.
The castle disappeared behind a bend in the road.
Cressida pressed her hand flat against the window pane, feeling the cold seep through her glove.
The landscape blurred past, familiar now from her weeks at Ashmere.
The village they’d planned to visit together.
The cottages Theodore had pointed out during their morning rides.
The ancient oak where they’d stopped once to share wine and bread, laughing about nothing in particular.
The stone bridge where he’d caught her hand and held it for three heartbeats before releasing it without explanation.
The moors stretching endlessly toward a horizon she’d grown to love.
All of it was his. None of it would ever be hers.
She wondered how long it would take for the memory of his touch to fade. How many nights she’d lie awake remembering the feel of his hand in her hair, the sound of his voice saying her name in the dark. How many mornings she’d wake reaching for someone who wasn’t there.
She’d told Theodore he was the one who couldn’t trust. What she hadn’t said—what she couldn’t say with him watching—was that she’d been equally foolish. Because despite every warning, despite every moment he’d shown her exactly who he was, she’d chosen to believe in something that didn’t exist.
She was the one who should never have trusted him.