Not now.
Not ever.
The knock came again, slower this time, more deliberate.
“Violet,” came the low voice through the door.
A voice that curled through her like memory and fire.
“Please—may I speak with you?”
Her fingers curled into her skirts. Of course he would come.
She crossed the small kitchen, her movements brittle, and opened the door only halfway.
William stood on the threshold, hat in hand, his face solemn, not a hint of arrogance about him.
“No,” she said immediately. “You cannot be here.”
His throat bobbed. “I ask only for a moment.”
“No.” She began to push the door shut.
He lifted a hand, stopping it with the lightest touch.
“Violet,” he said softly, “I have truths I came here to share. Things you deserved to hear—even if they are five years late.”
Her jaw locked. “If I allow you in to say whatever you’ve come to say, will you leave? Will you go back to your grand house and your perfect life and the woman you chose over me?”
Pain flickered across his face as he lowered his hand.
“I can’t promise that,” he said quietly.
Outrage flared hot and bright.
“That isn’t fair!” she snapped, not caring that she sounded rather like Lily when her daughter didn’t get her way.
“I know.” His voice broke. “I know it isn’t fair. But I lost you once, Violet, and I do not intend to lose you again. Not without fighting for you. For us.”
Her breath hitched—anger and grief crashing against each other.
“I don’t want your truths,” she hissed.
“You may not,” he said steadily, “but you deserve them. And… I cannot shake the feeling that some part of you wants to hear what I have to say.”
Her hands trembled. She hated that he could still read anything in her at all.
“Five minutes,” she said coldly. “No more.”
The breath he let out sounded dangerously like relief.
She stepped aside. Barely.
He crossed the threshold like a man entering a church.
The sight of him inside her home—her sanctuary—made something in her bristle.
Violet folded her arms across her chest.
