Chapter 15
Charlotte watched as Luca walked away, the echo of his retreating footsteps lingering like a reproach.
Heat rose to her cheeks—not from anger, but from the sting of humiliation.
She had allowed him to see a side of her she never revealed.
The fragile, frightened part she buried beneath layers of composure and wit.
What must he think of her now? Would he think her weak? Foolish?
She pressed a trembling hand to her stomach, willing her heartbeat to slow.
This was why she kept her mask firmly in place.
Why she smiled when she wished to scream, why she laughed when she wanted to weep.
It was better this way. Better to let the world see the diamond of the Season—polished, confident, unbreakable—than the frightened girl her father had once deemed worthless.
Her father. The thought alone was a blade to the heart. Even from beyond the grave, his voice whispered in her mind, sharp and cruel. You are nothing. A disappointment. A burden.
“Would you care to explain what that was all about?” Jane’s voice broke through her thoughts.
Charlotte turned sharply. “Nothing of importance.”
Jane raised a skeptical brow. “It did not appear to be nothing. You were crying, and Lord Luca was consoling you.”
Charlotte forced a careless shrug, though her throat ached. “It was merely a moment of weakness. It won’t happen again.”
“Why not?”
The simple question made her falter. “What do you mean?”
Jane’s eyes softened, her tone patient. “I only meant that I’m glad you are opening up to Lord Luca. He is a man you can trust.”
Charlotte let out a humorless laugh. “Trust? Hardly. He delights in teasing me at every opportunity.”
Jane’s lips curved knowingly. “And why do you suppose he does that? Could it be that he holds affection for you?”
“He cares for me,” Charlotte admitted. “He has said as much.”
“But affection, Charlotte,” Jane pressed, her smile tender. “There is a difference between care and feeling. I believe Lord Luca feels quite deeply for you.”
“For me?” Charlotte repeated, incredulous. “That is absurd. This engagement isn’t even real.”
Jane’s knowing expression didn’t waver. “Perhaps. But what I just witnessed looked real enough.”
Charlotte stiffened. “Well, you would be wrong.”
Jane stepped closer and rested a hand lightly on her sleeve. “Trusting someone is not a weakness. It is a reflection of your heart—of your courage, not theirs.”
Charlotte’s voice grew tight. “And what if my heart is wrong?”
“Then you will mend it,” Jane said. “But I will tell you this—I followed my heart once, and it led me to Alistair. Love may be terrifying, but it is worth every tremor of fear.”
Charlotte frowned. “I never said anything about love.”
“I know,” Jane said with a faint smile. “You hold everything in, pretending to be someone you are not. For what purpose?”
Charlotte looked away, her voice barely above a whisper. “Because it’s the only way to protect myself.”
“From what?”
Charlotte fell silent. She did not have to answer. Jane’s own history—her father’s cruelty, his disownment—spoke for her. The quiet that followed was heavy with understanding.
Jane continued. “You may always speak to me, but perhaps it’s time you spoke to Alistair. He is in his study.”
Charlotte hesitated. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“Start from wherever you can,” Jane encouraged. “The rest will come.”
Charlotte nodded faintly and headed inside, her heart pounding with dread and resolve. The corridor seemed longer than usual, the lamps flickering shadows along the walls as if warning her to turn back. Yet she did not. She reached the study door and knocked lightly.
“Enter,” came Alistair’s familiar voice.
She drew in a deep breath and stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of ink and brandy. Alistair looked up from his desk, his expression brightening. “Charlotte, what a pleasant surprise.”
Her composure wavered. “I was hoping to speak with you.”
The warmth in his smile faded to concern. “Of course. Is something wrong?”
“Yes.” Her voice cracked.
Alistair rose at once, closing the door behind her before facing her fully. “You’ve been crying,” he said. It was not a question.
“I have.” There seemed little point in denying it.
“What troubles you?”
“Jane suggested I speak with you,” Charlotte managed.
He waited patiently. “What would you care to discuss?”
She swallowed hard. “Father.”
Alistair went still, every trace of ease vanishing. “What about him?”
“He holds too much power over me,” she admitted. “Even in death, I can still hear him—his voice, his scorn. Calling me worthless to his friends.”
Alistair’s jaw clenched. “He called you that?”
“Among other things,” she said bitterly. “He made me feel small… unwanted. Unlovable. So I learned to pretend. I locked everything away so tightly that not even you could see the truth.”
“Oh, Charlotte,” Alistair murmured, guilt and sorrow filling his tone.
She drew a shaky breath. “And I am angry with you, too. You left me behind when you joined the Army. You never answered my letters.”
Alistair’s eyes widened. “What letters? I never received a single one.”
“That cannot be. I wrote to you every week for years.”
“I swear to you, I never received them,” he said, stepping closer.
Understanding dawned—horrifying and cold. “Then Father must have stopped them,” she responded, tears welling anew. “He wanted to keep me alone.”
Alistair’s face darkened with regret. “I thought you were safe with your governesses. I knew he could be harsh, but I never realized—”
“I hated when you left,” Charlotte confessed. “I felt trapped. Alone. I wanted to run after you, to escape everything.”
“I am so sorry. I failed you, and I will spend the rest of my life trying to make it right.”
Charlotte shook her head. “When you left, I learned that no one was going to save me. I had to do it myself.”
“Charlotte…” he started.
She stepped back, her eyes burning. “It was the only way to survive him.”
“Father is gone.”
“But his voice isn’t,” she said, tapping her temple. “It’s still here, reminding me I’ll never be enough.”
Alistair’s expression softened. “You are enough. More than enough. Look at what you’ve accomplished, and you are only ten and eight years old.”
Her throat tightened as a tear slid down her cheek. “I became the diamond to prove that I could—to prove to him that he was wrong about me.”
“Did it help?”
Charlotte shook her head, her voice breaking. “No. It feels hollow. Empty. Because no matter what I achieve, he still wins because I still believe him.”
In the next moment, Charlotte found herself enveloped in Alistair’s firm embrace.
For a heartbeat, her every instinct screamed to retreat—to step back and compose herself before her walls crumbled entirely.
That had always been her way: conceal, control, survive.
But this time… she was simply too tired.
Tired of the masquerade, of pretending that nothing ever touched her.
So instead of pulling away, she allowed herself to lean into him. Her arms came up tentatively at first, then with more certainty, and she rested her cheek against his shoulder. For the first time in years, she felt peace.
After a long silence, Alistair released her, though he stayed close, his expression a mixture of sorrow and tenderness.
“Father was a cruel, vindictive, unhappy man,” he said.
“He wished for everyone around him to feel the same misery he carried within himself. He isn’t worthy of your time or your thoughts. ”
“I believe that to be true, but his voice will not leave me. It’s as if he lingers still, whispering that I am never enough.”
A faint smile touched Alistair’s lips, though his eyes betrayed understanding. “It isn’t easy. I still hear him, too, though softer now than before. But this”—he gestured between them—“this is a beginning. You’ve trusted me with your truth, and I admire you all the more for it.”
“I do not like being vulnerable,” she admitted, folding her arms as if to shield herself.
“No one does,” he said. “But to be vulnerable is to be brave. You are confronting your demons instead of running from them, and that is no small feat.”
Charlotte bit her lower lip, her gaze dropping to the carpet. “How did you face your past with Father?”
“It wasn’t easy,” Alistair admitted. “But I trusted Jane with the truth. I feared she would think less of me, but she didn’t. She became my solace.”
Without meaning to, an image of Luca came to her mind. She thought on the way his touch earlier had steadied her trembling hands. She pushed the thought away, irritated with herself. Why had his face appeared just now, when Alistair spoke of solace?
Did she truly see Luca as hers? Impossible.
She might have developed an inconvenient tenderness for him, but it was surely one-sided. Foolish, even. Wasn’t it?
“Charlotte?” Alistair’s voice broke through her thoughts. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly, forcing a smile. “I was merely woolgathering.”
“Was it something I said?”
She shook her head and stepped back, needing distance before he could read too much in her expression. “No. I simply believe I have had enough of soul-baring truths for one day.” Her tone was light, but her chest still felt raw.
Alistair’s answering smile was gentle, exactly as she’d hoped. “You are always welcome to speak with me, you know. We are family and we must look after one another.”
“Thank you,” she replied, turning towards the door. “Jane invited Lord Luca to dinner this evening.”
Alistair’s brows lifted, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I am not surprised. We both watched you from the window earlier.”
Charlotte spun around, mortified. “You were watching as well?”
“Yes,” he said, far too cheerfully. “And it was rather telling.”
She groaned. “You and Jane are both insufferable.”
“Perhaps,” he said, a smug smile playing on his lips.
Reaching for the door handle, she replied, “You do realize that Luca and I do not require a chaperone since we are engaged.”