He deserved that.
He accepted that.
But he would not let it remain true.
He replayed the day in fragments as he walked.
Lily’s small hands gently cradling his much larger, injured one.
Her solemn little face as she tended him with the same careful devotion Violet must have shown her countless times—a tenderness learned by imitation rather than instruction.
And when Violet finally took over, because Lily’s little fingers could only do so much, he’d felt it—
that brief, unguarded softening in her touch…
followed by the swift, deliberate tightening of her armor the instant she sensed it.
And later, Lily had looked up at him, hopeful and earnest, as only a child could be.
“Goodbye, Mr. Ashford. Will you come again another day?”
The name had stung—Mr. Ashford, notPapa.
But the question, her wanting to see him again, soothed the wound almost as quickly as it formed.
And finally, Violet at her door—
“You know I won’t.”
She had held firm—
but not untouched.
She had not said—
Don’t come back.
Leave us alone.
I don’t want you here.
And William knew Violet.
He had known her since childhood—her quick tongue, her temper, her fierce stubbornness.
He knew that when Violet fell silent, it was never indifference.
It was restraint—her last line of defense.
Because speaking would crack something open—
her composure…
or her heart.
Which meant she was not unmoved.
Not entirely.
