Chapter 23
Isla doesn’t sleep.
She lies awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling as the castle settles around her, the old stones creaking and sighing like something alive.
The sounds are constant once she starts listening: the low groan of beams adjusting to the cold, the whisper of air moving through corridors never meant to be sealed, the faint echo of footsteps that aren’t there.
The castle has never been quiet.
It breathes. It remembers.
She rolls onto her side and closes her eyes, but memory crowds in anyway. Callum’s hands. His voice, low and careful when he was trying not to say the wrong thing. The way he looked at her this morning when she laughed without guarding herself.
He does not come to her.
That hurts more than she wants to admit.
She tells herself he’s giving her space, that he’s doing the respectful thing. That if he came now, everything would fracture completely. She would give in. She would stay. She would tell herself that love is worth any compromise.
And that terrifies her.
She has spent her entire life earning her place in the world. Earning approval. Earning space. Earning the right to exist without apology. She knows how easily love can turn into a negotiation where she is the one making concessions.
She will not do that again.
The decision settles heavily in her chest, not sharp but constant. This is grief, not panic. This is choice, not escape.
She rises before dawn, moving quietly, deliberately. There is no rush. She dresses slowly, pulling on jeans and a sweater, folding each movement into the next like ritual. The suitcase at the foot of the bed waits for her, already packed.
That realization stings.
She crosses the room and sits at the small desk by the window. Outside, the sky is still dark, the horizon just beginning to soften into gray. She takes out a sheet of paper and a pen and stares at the blank page.
Writing has never scared her.
This does.
She presses the pen down and begins, stopping and starting more than once before the words finally come.
Callum,
I’m leaving before this becomes something I can’t undo.
That doesn’t mean I don’t love you. It means I love myself enough not to disappear.
If I stay, I will start doing what I’ve always done, explaining my pain until it’s reasonable, justifying my anger until it’s quiet, telling myself that love means understanding why men hesitate instead of asking them to stand.
I don’t want to be brave like that anymore.
I love you. I love the way you listen when you don’t know what to say. I love the way you stay when things are uncomfortable. I love the way you belong here.
And that’s the truth I can’t ignore.
This castle chose you long before it ever knew me. It held you when nothing else did. I would never forgive myself if I became the reason you lost it.
I’m leaving it to you. All of it. Not because I’m running, but because I’m choosing what won’t break either of us.
Please don’t follow me out of guilt or obligation. Only come if you know, without hesitation, that you’re choosing me.
I love you. I always will.
—Isla
Her hand trembles as she sets the pen down.
She folds the letter carefully, smoothing the crease as if precision might make this less painful. She places it on the bed where he will find it, then sets the signed legal documents giving him the castle on top. She doesn’t look at them again. If she does, she might falter.
She stands there for a long moment, absorbing the finality of it.
This is her black moment, not because she doubts the choice, but because she knows the cost.
She moves through the castle one last time, barefoot now, the stone cool beneath her feet. She pauses in the music room, resting her hand lightly on the piano lid. For a heartbeat, she considers playing something, one final note, one last memory.
She doesn’t.
Some things are better left untouched.
Putting her boots on, she hauls her suitcase down the steps, remembering when she arrived.
At the front door, she hesitates.
The castle feels restless, the air shifting as if the walls themselves are aware of her leaving. When she opens the heavy door, a low sound rises through the stone, deep and old, almost a moan. The place seems to resist her, mourning in its own ancient way.
Her throat tightens.
“It’s not you,” she whispers, absurdly. “It’s me.”
The words feel thin even as she says them.
She steps outside into the morning, pulling her coat tight as mist curls around her ankles. She does not look back. If she does, she won’t keep walking.
As the car pulls away, the castle looms behind her, solid, unmoving, full of history and ghosts.
She presses her forehead to the window, tears finally spilling.
She is leaving the man she loves.
She is leaving the place that feels like grief given form.
She tells herself this is strength. That choosing herself is not abandonment. That love does not always mean staying.
Still, the ache is relentless.
And somewhere beneath the resolve and the sorrow, a single, terrifying thought takes root:
What if love was the one thing she wasn’t supposed to walk away from?
The plane lifts off hours later, carrying her back to New York, back to contracts and schedules and a life she understands.
But the castle follows her.
So do thoughts of Callum.
She doesn’t know yet which one will matter more.