She had protected her daughter.
Theirdaughter, whispered a small, traitorous voice inside her.
She had protectedtheirdaughter.
Her breath caught on a painful swell of emotion.
For one fragile heartbeat, she let herself imagine a different world—
one where truth had no bite,
where class carried no weight,
where choices did not carve their futures into before and after.
A world where she had not pushed him away.
Her father and Lily drew closer, Lily still chattering with wild enthusiasm, every bit of her safe, loved, and blissfully unaware of the storm inside her mother.
Violet stepped back from the door, leaving it open behind her, as if closing it might shut out the pieces of her heart walking up the path.
Inside, the cottage felt too quiet.
Too still.
Too full of the things she wanted and could not have.
Yet Mrs. Pembroke’s words lingered—earnest and impossible to set aside.
You are not alone.
And this story is not yet finished.
Violet lowered herself slowly into the nearest chair, fingers curling against her skirts as if to hold herself together.
For the first time since sending William away,
she wondered if doing the right thing
was meant to hurt quite this much.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
London swallowed him whole.
William had forgotten how loud it was—omnibuses clattering over cobblestones, boot heels striking pavement, clerks calling to one another, carriage wheels shrieking through the fog.
He moved through it like a ghost, untouched by the rhythm of the city.
He had come with one purpose.
Only one.
Violet.
Lily.
Their future.
