“Louise has made her position very clear.” Cecilia’s voice was steady, though it cost her something. “She will not live in the shadow of the dead. And I wonder whether you should ask yourself why you insist on doing so.”
She left without waiting for response, the door closing with quiet finality that somehow echoed louder than a slam.
Aaron stood alone in his study, surrounded by the debris of his self-destruction. The morning light illuminated every shameful detail: empty bottles lined like soldiers who’d lost their war, correspondence growing mold at the edges, the slow entropy of a life choosing death over the risk of living.
He moved to the window, staring out at gardens that had once bloomed with his mother’s favorite roses. Emily had played there, building kingdoms from snow while Buttercup destroyed carefully maintained borders. Louise had walked those paths each morning, her copper hair catching sunlight that seemed brighter when she stood in it.
Now only dead things remained, waiting for spring that would come whether or not he believed in it.
His reflection caught in the glass, superimposed over the barren landscape. Hollow eyes, sharp cheekbones, the face of a man who’d been feeding on his own misery like some villain in a poorly written novel.
What would Louise think if she saw him now?
The thought sent unexpected shame coursing through him. Not the familiar shame of his father’s legacy, but something sharper, more immediate. She had been brave enough to offer him everything, and he’d been too cowardly to accept it. She had fought for their chance at happiness while he retreated behind walls of his own construction.
Aaron pressed his palms against the cold glass, feeling the chill seep into his bones. Somewhere across London, Louise was probably helping Emily with morning lessons. Making their meager funds stretch to cover necessities. Refusing suitors who could offer her comfort and security because her heart remained loyal to a man who’d thrown her devotion back in her face.
His hands clenched into fists.
She was settling for shadows because he had been too much a coward to offer her sunlight.
She was withering in duty because he’d convinced himself nobility meant suffering.
She was alone because he’d chosen isolation over the terrifying possibility of happiness.
“No more.” The words emerged as a growl, surprising him with their vehemence.
Aaron turned from the window, seeing his study with sudden, shocking clarity. This wasn’t a noble sacrifice. This was slow suicide dressed in pretty justifications. He was becoming exactly what he’d feared most: a man who destroyed everything he touched, starting with himself.
He rang for Thornton with more force than necessary. The butler appeared with suspicious speed, as if he’d been hovering nearby.
“Your Grace?” Hope flickered in the older man’s eyes, quickly suppressed.
“Have someone clear this room.” Aaron gestured at the battlefield of bottles. “Every decanter, every glass. If I ask for brandy before noon again, you have my permission to lock the cabinet.”
Thornton’s expression transformed with poorly concealed relief. “Immediately, Your Grace.”
“And send word to my valet. I need to look presentable.” Aaron caught his reflection in a mirror, grimacing at the stranger staring back. “Actually presentable, not just clothed.”
“Of course, Your Grace. Might I inquire as to the occasion?”
Aaron paused at the threshold, feeling something shift inside him like ice beginning to crack after endless winter. For weeks, he’d moved through darkness so complete he’d forgotten lightexisted. Now, possibility flickered at the edges of his vision, terrifying and essential in equal measure.
“Redemption, Thornton.” The word tasted foreign on his tongue, sharp with hope he’d thought himself too damaged to feel. “Or at least an attempt.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” Thornton’s professional composure cracked enough to show genuine pleasure. “Shall I have cook prepare an actual breakfast? The kind one eats rather than drinks?”
“Yes.” Aaron’s stomach chose that moment to remind him that Brandy was not, in fact, a food group. “And Thornton? Send word to the household. Things are going to change.”
The butler bowed deeply. “It will be my very great pleasure, Your Grace.”
As Thornton bustled away, Aaron stood in the doorway between his study and the corridor, suspended between the man he’d been and the man he might yet become. Fear still coursed through his veins, familiar as blood. But beneath it, something else stirred. Not quite hope, but its predecessor.
The possibility that courage might weigh more than fear.
That love might prove stronger than legacy.
That a man could choose to be more than his worst assumptions about himself.
