“I have seen this before,” Carly said softly. “People fall in love with Braxton because he makes them feel chosen. And he means it in the moment.”
My chest tightened.
“But eventually,” she continued, “the scale tips. The obligations return. The firm needs him. The family needs him. The life he comes from does not disappear just because he wishes it would.”
I swallowed.
“You deserve a life that fits. One that you enjoy. I don’t think the life I described would be one that you would choose,” Carly gently mentioned.
I looked at her then. Really looked.
“You think I would have to become someone else,” I said.
“I think you would be asked to,” she replied. “Over and over. Quietly. Reasonably. Until you don’t even recognize yourself. It’s not fair to you and it’s not fair to him.”
I thought of James’ voice. Of being told I had potential if only I changed. If only I stayed longer. If only I became something shinier.
“I’m happy here,” I said. I was happy with my family, with doing something that mattered. I had been happy here with Braxton.
Carly nodded. “I believe you. Which is why I felt the need to say something before feelings ran deeper. I do love my brother and would hope to spare him pain.”
The door behind me opened slightly as Erin peeked in.
“Jane,” she said gently. “We are ready for the next step when you are.”
I turned toward her immediately. “Thank you. I’m coming.”
Carly stood as well. “I will not keep you.”
I walked back to the kitchen by myself. The heat and motion rushed back in, familiar and grounding.
Jane the professional slid back into place easily. I adjusted a pan, checked a timer, and gave instructions. The world narrowed to things I could control.
Braxton did not return.
I told myself it was fine. He had responsibilities. He always would.
The kitchen hummed around me, steady and reliable.
And for the first time since he arrived, I let myself imagine what it would feel like when he left.
Chapter Twenty-Three: The Space I Made
Braxton
By the time I came back inside, my hands were numb and my shoulders ached in the slow, insistent way that only cold work could manage. My jacket smelled like damp wool, and there was snow clinging to the cuffs no matter how many times I brushed at it.
Dex had insisted we finish the far edge of the parking lot properly. Not just clear enough for cars to pass, but wide enough that guests would not have to step into slush in dress shoes. William had agreed, pointing out the places where snow always drifted back in, no matter how often it was cleared. He had been right, as usual.
We had worked without much conversation. Shovels scraping and breath fogging the air. The steady, unglamorous work of making something functional.
It was easier than thinking.
When I pushed through the side entrance and stamped my boots on the mat, the inn felt different than it had an hour ago. Warmer, yes. Louder, definitely. The wedding had crossed some invisible threshold while I was outside. There were more voices now. More footsteps. More people moving with purpose instead of preparation. People were arriving to the inn, ready for the joyous occasion.
I shrugged off my jacket and hung it on the hook by the door, then paused.
Jane was visible from where I stood.
