10. The Final Decision
Ten
The Final Decision
M ary stood in the center of the front hall like an avenging angel, her arms crossed and her eyebrows drawn together in a frown so deep it could have carved valleys. Thunder practically crackled in her eyes.
Mr. Moore stood before her, unmistakably guilty despite his attempts at dignity, while Vikram shuffled beside him like a boy hauled before the magistrate, muddy and bruised from his adventures.
“Then,” Mary said, the weight of judgment clear enough in her voice. “The prodigal thief returns. And brings along the man he robbed. Charming.”
Neither said a word. The only sound was the wall clock marking the passage of seconds and the only movement was water dripping from both their sleeves onto the hardwood floor.
“Well? Anything more to add? Or do I just scold the both of you into next week?”
Mr. Moore opened his mouth, then thought better of it and closed it again.
Mary turned her withering gaze on Vikram. “And you. Is it food this time? A shiny trinket? Or did you manage to outdo yourself?”
“Just bread,” Vikram mumbled. “And a coin.”
“Just!” Mary’s voice snapped like a whip. “You ran from constables through three streets and nearly got Mr. Moore arrested trying to fetch you out of the gutter.”
Vikram flinched. Mary saw it, but her voice didn’t soften.
“And what about the watch?”
Without a word, Vikram dug into his pants pocket and slowly withdrew the silver pocket watch, its chain coiled like guilt in his palm. He held it out, eyes fixed on the floor.
Mr. Moore took it carefully, raising his eyebrows in delicious surprise.
“So you didn’t sell it,” Mary observed.
“No, madam.”
“What stopped you?”
Vikram’s voice was barely audible. “I… thought he would come find me if kept it.”
Mary blinked. That wasn’t the answer she’d expected.
“You think that’s clever? That’s manipulation.”
Vikram shrank back further. Mary’s voice dropped, more tired than angry now.
“You don’t steal from someone who’s kind to you. That’s not survival. That’s betrayal.”
Mr. Moore shifted uncomfortably. “Mary, please—”
“No, sir.” She turned back to Vikram. “This is not a game. You’re not a storybook orphan, and this is not a house of second chances on demand. You stay now, you behave. You earn what you get.”
“Yes, madam,” Vikram whispered.
Mary stared him down for another beat, then turned her fury back to Mr. Moore. He straightened instinctively.
“And you. I don’t know whether to hug you or shake you senseless. You keep doing this every day. Giving and forgiving and bringing trouble right through that door.”
“That’s why I have you, isn’t it?” Mr. Moore replied with a slight smile.
Mary scowled, but her shoulders dropped. The fire left her, replaced by long-suffering exasperation.
“The attic room,” she declared. “Clean your shoes before you touch the stairs. And don’t expect supper—you’re both late.”
She marched away, muttering something under her breath about “men and their hopeless hearts.”
Mr. Moore turned to Vikram, who was still watching Mary disappear around the corner.
“She scarier than police,” Vikram observed.
“Yes,” Mr. Moore agreed. “But also warmer than the fire, once she decides you’re worth the wood.”
Vikram said nothing, but followed as Mr. Moore removed his shoes and led the way up the stairs, both of them somehow understanding that this time, there would be no running away.
* * *
The drawing room at the Sullivan estate felt different in the gentle light of next morning, softer somehow, delicate like a feather touch on the skin, though Mr. Moore couldn’t say exactly why.
Perhaps it was something to do with the way the pale sunlight fell across the familiar furniture as if trying to showcase particular parts of it, like the memory of a ghost, or perhaps simply that grief had a way of changing how one saw everything, even rooms that had remained unchanged for years.
He stood near the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, dressed neatly but plainly.
He’d been waiting—patiently, without complaint—since being admitted by the butler an hour earlier.
When the door opened and Kate entered, he turned with the expression of someone bearing the same weight of loss as she did.
Kate had taken time to regain herself properly, her mourning dress fully laced, her hair pinned tightly, every detail attending to the image of a woman in control. She looked tired, certainly, but regal again. Like someone remembering how to breathe after all.
She didn’t speak at first, the whisper of her skirts was the only sound between them as she walked slowly across the room towards Mr. Moore. Each step seemed carefully measured, as if she were crossing a bridge she wasn’t certain would hold her weight.
Mr. Moore watched her approach as if time had slowed, each of her steps matching the hammering of his heart, loud and intense in his own ears. Even immersed in deep grief, and dressed all in black, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He had no doubt whatsoever about it.
Kate stopped before Mr. Moore, close enough to see the concern etched in his eyes, the way he held himself with that usual stillness of his—ready to withdraw if she needed space, ready to stay if she needed presence.
His hands remained clasped behind his back, but she noticed the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw worked as if holding back a dozen questions he wouldn’t ask.
She took a deep sigh before saying anything.
“I was waiting to feel steady,” she said finally. “I don’t. But I’d rather not wait anymore.”
Mr. Moore’s eyes were fixed on her, never straying from her face. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, understanding perhaps that this was her moment, that whatever she needed to say required the gift of his silence.
For a second time, Kate drew in a breath, held it, and released it slowly. “You asked once what it might entail… our arrangement.” She paused, searching for his eyes, wanting to see what laid behind them before continuing, “I think it entails saying yes.”
Her words, once spoken, met a heavy silence. And with it, also came the realization of the significance of what she had just agreed to.
Mr. Moore’s eyes shone brightly. Relief flooded his features, followed by something deeper. Gratitude, certainly. But also, something raw and unguarded that made Kate’s own chest tighten in response.
“You honor me,” he simply said, and the words carried a weight that suggested he meant them in ways she didn’t yet understand.
They stood facing one another, not too far, not too close either. But the space between them felt alive with connection even as the arrangement they were crafting would define all the ways they would remain apart.
Kate waited for him to say more, to press his advantage or express relief at securing her fortune. He didn’t. He simply stood there, watching her with those patient eyes, waiting for whatever came next.
Therefore she spoke again, “if we are to proceed with this marriage, Mr. Moore,” she continued with her voice growing steadier after each word as she reclaimed the familiar ground of negotiation, “there are terms you must accept.”
He nodded once, solemn as a man taking an oath. “I’m listening.”
“First—this house remains mine. We will live here. You are welcome to your rooms, but I am not leaving my father’s home.”
“Agreed.”
“Second—we will not share chambers.”
Something flashed across his expression, but Kate couldn’t quite interpret it. Still, she heard him say with a steady voice, “Understood.”
Kate lifted her chin slightly then, fortifying herself for the final term. She met his eyes directly, refusing to look away even as heat crept up her neck. “And third—we will not consummate this marriage. Not now. Perhaps not ever.”
Silence settled over the room like a death sentence weighing on both their shoulders.
Mr. Moore felt something shift in his chest, a complicated tangle of emotions that caught him off guard. All at once, all too fast.
Relief came first, of course, sharp and immediate.
The marriage would protect them both without requiring the intimacy that would expose everything he was hiding.
No wedding night discoveries, no questions he couldn’t answer, no moment when Kate would look at him with horror after knowing his huge betrayal.
But beneath the relief, something else stirred.
Something unexpected and unwelcome. Or maybe not entirely so.
A flutter of disappointment, perhaps, or loss for something that could never be.
He’d grown accustomed to Kate’s presence, to the way she challenged him, to those rare moments when her guard dropped and he glimpsed the woman beneath the armor.
He had completely fallen for her, and the thought that this arrangement would keep that version of Kate forever at arm’s length left an ache he hadn’t anticipated.
He pushed the feeling aside. This was what he’d needed. What they both needed. A marriage of convenience that would remain exactly that.
He kept, though, his expression completely neutral when he answered her. “Yes. On all counts. I give you my word.”
Kate’s eyes widened for half a second. She’d expected questions, he realized. Protests. Perhaps negotiations or demands for compromise. The fact that he’d agreed so readily seemed to unsettle her more than resistance would have.
She nodded once. Then, “There is a fourth condition. It was my father’s before it became mine.” She paused. “You must take the Sullivan name alongside your own. Moore-Sullivan. That way, the company keeps its name. My father’s name continues in the firm.”
Mr. Moore’s eyebrows furrowed slightly, but he did not look away.
“Moore-Sullivan,” he said quietly, as if hearing how it sounded aloud for the first time. Testing it. Not performing hesitation but genuinely weighing something that could not be unweighed once he agreed to it.
Kate said nothing. She had stated the condition. The rest belonged to him.