Her question held everything… Her anger.Her fear.Her hope.But mixed within was a silent plea, begging me to prove I wasn’t like Victor.
A war raged inside me, every instinct screaming to keep her close and protect her.But layered beneath it all was something quieter.Harder.More honest.
I wanted her to trust me.She never would if I kept her caged.
Blake was right.Control was an illusion anyway.If she wanted to run, she’d find a way.If she wanted to stay, that had to be her decision.Her choice.
So, for the first time in a long time, I forced myself to let go.To give up the control I’d held on to for years.
She wanted space and a sense of autonomy.
I could give her that.
“Okay,” I said finally.
Her brows rose, her mouth slightly agape.“Okay?”
“Yes,” I responded evenly.“I understand why you might want some space.If you prefer to stay with your mother, I won’t stand in your way.”
“You won’t?”
I shrugged dismissively, as if the idea of giving up this much control didn’t pain me.
“You’re safe as long as you remain on my property.The guesthouse is on my property.No harm will come to you there.Do you want me to help carry your bag?”I gestured toward it, but kept my distance.
She stared at me for several protracted moments, obviously dumbfounded by my sudden about-face.I had a feeling this entire situation was a test.She most likely expected me to push back.But I wasn’t going to.I was going to give her some rope.
Some freedom.
“I can manage,” she replied.
I stepped aside, letting her pass.
As much as I hated watching her limp through the great room and toward the French doors, I gave her the space she needed, her steps echoing against the polished floors in the cavernous room.
When she opened the door, she paused, glancing back at me.Our eyes met — hers conflicted, mine hopefully confident and reassuring.
Then she faced forward and stepped into the sunlight.I watched until she disappeared from view, the sound of her suitcase on the gravel path fading with her.
ChapterFifteen
Ariana
It was hard to call this a guesthouse.
The ceilings stretched high enough to swallow sound.Afternoon light spilled through the tall windows, catching on the polished floors and the faint specks of dust dancing in the air.Everything smelled faintly of fresh linen — expensive, clean, impersonal.It was probably twice the size of the house I grew up in, but what mattered most wasn’t the luxury.
It was thespace.
Space to think.
Space to breathe.
Space from Henry.
Especially after he let me go so easily.I’d expected a fight.Another argument.For him to prove what I’d spent all day convincing myself of.
That he was exactly like Victor.
