"Then why does it feel like you're a thousand miles away even though you're standing right in front of me?"
Because she'd let herself hope. Because she'd believed, for one moment, that she might be enough to make him stay. Because watching him walk away had felt like confirmation of every fear she'd been trying to ignore.
But she couldn't say any of that. Couldn't make herself that vulnerable when he'd already proven where his priorities lay.
"I'm simply tired," she said instead. "It was a long night and today has been busy. That's all."
He stared at her for a long moment, clearly not believing her but also not knowing how to push past her defenses.
"Right," he said finally, releasing her wrist. "Well. I'll leave you to your preparations then. I wouldn't want to be in the way."
He turned to go, and Chance immediately trotted after him—then stopped, looked back at Isobel, and returned to sit at her feet.
Andrew paused, glancing down at the dog. "Traitor."
Chance ignored him, leaning against Isobel's skirts with a contented sigh.
"Even the dog is taking her side now." Andrew's laugh was hollow. "I really am in trouble."
And then he was gone, leaving Isobel alone in the ballroom with a puppy and a heart that felt like it was breaking.
She sank down onto a chair, her carefully maintained composure finally cracking. Chance whined and put his head in her lap, and she stroked his soft fur with trembling hands.
"What am I doing?" she whispered. "Why does this hurt so much?"
But she knew the answer.
It hurt because she loved him. Despite everything—despite her fears, despite the warnings, despite knowing better—she'd fallen hopelessly, desperately in love with her husband.
And loving him meant giving him the power to hurt her. Meant watching him choose his club over her again and again. Meant accepting that she would never be his first priority, no matter how much she wished it could be different.
The question was: could she live with that?
Could she spend the rest of her life loving a man who would always put something else first
Twenty-Six
Andrew stood outside the Mayfair Fox, his solicitor Mr. Davies at his side, and stared at the building that had defined his entire adult life.
The gas lamps cast warm golden light across the entrance, illuminating the discreet brass plaque that read simply:The Mayfair Fox - Members Only.
Through the windows, he could see the familiar scene—men gathered around tables, dealers shuffling cards, the soft clink of glasses and low murmur of conversation.
This place had been his salvation. His proof. His identity.
And he was about to walk away from it.
Not completely, he told himself. Not forever. Just... enough to make room for something, someone, more important.
"Shall we go in, Your Grace?" Mr. Davies prompted him gently.
Andrew nodded, pushing open the door and stepping into the world he'd built.
When his eyes met Annette’s, she smiled, excusing herself from the patron she'd been speaking with.
"Your Grace. I wasn't expecting you tonight." She glanced at Mr. Davies, her expression turning more guarded. "Is something wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Come with me. Both of you." Andrew led them to his private office at the back, away from curious eyes and listening ears. "In fact, I'm here to make things right."
