She hated how his words affected her—how they reached the parts of her that remembered laughter and happiness, the quiet joy of planning a beautiful future together; that remembered the overwhelming relief and happiness that had flooded his face when she accepted his proposal, when he slid the ring onto herfinger and then kissed it tenderly. That remembered the faith she once held in their future—the girl who believed in true love and soulmates, certain she had found hers.
But that girl—the girl who had once loved him without question—had been wounded beyond recognition.
She would be a fool to let him close enough to do it again.
He claimed he was the same man he had always been—that Charlotte's lies had only changed him temporarily. That now, freed from that web of deceit, he saw clearly. She could not deny that he was a good father. Doting. Patient. Joyful. And with her, too, he was gentle—cautious, even when she made it difficult.
But was that enough? Could anything ever be enough to warrant forgetting what he had done?
Because she could not forget. That was the trouble. The dreams ensured it. The version of herself she had become ensured it. The bitterness that sometimes tightened her chest without warning. The way she still flinched—silently, invisibly—at certain tones, certain gestures, certain words.
Jasper had suffered too—she saw that now.
He had missed the entire span of her pregnancy, the birth of their daughter, and the first seven months of Emmeline's life—her earliest milestones, her first smile, her first laugh. All because he had believed Charlotte's lies, losing the woman he loved to his own misplaced fury. And then, worst of all, he had been forced to reckon with the bitter truth: Charlotte was not a victim, but the architect of their ruin. She had not died, but in a way, he had lost her all the same.
Abigail was grateful that Philip had escaped that trap. That Charlotte's plans to ensnare him had failed.
But none of it erased what had been done.
None of it unmade the pain.
Her hands trembled as she reached for a fresh sheet of stationery. She hesitated—then dipped her pen.
-Jasper,
Here I am, sitting up at night, unable to sleep. Angry.
Angry because I keep thinking of you. Of us. Of all that has happened—and all that you promise in your letters for the future, if only we might find our way back to one another.
Your apologies and promises, though well-aimed, are deflected against the armor I've been forced to wear. You write of our future as though I might forgive and forget—but I cannot forget, Jasper. And because of that, forgiveness feels impossible.
I am awake at this hour because I dreamed again. Dreamed I was still at Greystone Hollow. Still lost in that fog, unfit to mother the daughter I love more than my own life. In the dream, someone else cared for her—because I could not rise from my bed. And I heard your voice again. The words you spat at me before slamming the carriage door.
I woke gasping.
So, there it is. Your letters, no matter how hopeful, are met by memories that refuse to fade. Even if I could believe in your promises, I am still haunted by your past actions. And as long as those memories linger, how can I ever move forward?
She paused, her heart pounding. She had not intended to write so much—nor so honestly.
But perhaps he needed to hear it.
And perhaps she needed to say it.
With a trembling breath, she signed simply:
—Abigail
She folded the letter, slid it into an envelope, and walked to the door. Opening it as quietly as possible, she stepped into the corridor and walked the short distance to Jasper's chambers. Then, before she could think better of it, she knelt and slipped the envelope beneath his door.
Back in her room, she closed the door silently behind her. Then she climbed into bed—not asleep, not at peace, but unburdened.
Or rather... slightly less burdened.
Tomorrow would come. With more silences. More decisions.
But for tonight, she had spoken her truth.
And for now, that was enough.
