Only her.
He sprinted toward the carriage. Every instinct, every cell of him knew where he belonged—with her.
The landau gleamed in the dark, rain sliding down its windows like tears. The driver turned, startled, but Felix didn’t slow.
He tore the door open.
And there she was.
Not composed like in the hall. Not a stranger standing stiffly.
She was curled slightly into herself, her cloak damp, curls loose around her cheeks, tears carving tracks down her face.
His breath caught.
“Maisie,” he whispered, softer now—a broken benediction. He could say nothing else.
He loved the ring of her name—especially now, with her looking at him through tears, with those warm, whisky-dark eyes.
She gasped. Her lips trembled.
She’s crying. She remembers me.
And he climbed in—without invitation, without pause—and slammed the door shut behind him, sealing them together.
For one long heartbeat, there was only their breathing—loud, ragged. The steady drum of rain. The fragile space between them.
And then Felix reached for her hand. Because how could he not?
*
“Faivish.” Her voicefaltered the instant it left her lips.
His name was a lifeline and a wound, tangled in memory and longing. She said it because she always had. Because she’d always reached straight for him.
Tears fell freely—hot, aching, unstoppable—as if her body had waited years for permission. The cabin was dim, rain streaking silver across the glass, but all she saw was him.
He didn’t sit across from her. No, he was kneeling at an angle—on the wet, wooden floor of the landau. His movements were unsteady but sure, like a man whose soul had already chosen. One hand hovered between them, hesitant, but with the other, he cupped her cheek with exquisite gentleness.
He kissed her cold hand. “Maisie,” he rasped.
The pain in his voice tore through her. A hush bloomed inside her. She didn’t dare look at him—because if she did, everything she’d held together might shatter.
She couldn’t find him, so she built her life protecting people like Deena and the boy, ultimately burying her own identity. But this wasn’t how she imagined their reunion. Not in a carriage. Not with half the Pearlers watching. Not trembling, unspeakably fragile.
But Faivish was here. Flesh and breath and water—staring at her as if she had never stopped belonging to him.
“Are you still my Maisie?” he asked.
The words struck like lightning—raw, desperate, stripped to the bone.
She blinked. “What?”
“Lady Spencer?” he forced out, his jaw tight. “Did you… marry?” His eyes, rimmed red from rain and something deeper, searched hers.
She couldn’t breathe under the scrutiny of that gaze. “No one is supposed to know who I am,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “It’s too dangerous. For Deena, too. And I’m responsible for the boy.”
“The Marquess of Stonefield?” His posture shifted, rigid. His handsdropped. He jerked back. “Your responsibility. Your stepson?” He swallowed hard.
