He should go after her. Should tell her he'd made a mistake, that he didn't really want to be alone, that he needed her more than he'd ever needed anything.
But his feet wouldn't move. His throat had closed around any words that might have saved this moment.
Because deep down, beneath all the panic and fear, a terrible voice whispered that she was right. That he would always choose the Mayfair Fox over her. That he didn't know how to be a husband when he didn't even know how to be himself.
The footsteps came back down the stairs.
She appeared in the doorway, a small traveling bag in her hand. She'd changed into a simpler day dress, more appropriate for travel. Her hair was hastily pinned, a few honey-colored curls escaping to frame her face.
She looked beautiful. And lost. And so desperately hurt that he wanted to cross the room and pull her into his arms and promise he'd never hurt her again.
But he couldn't make that promise. Not when he'd already broken it so many times.
"Isobel," he managed. "Please. Don't do this."
She met his eyes, and he saw all the love and pain and frustration warring in her expression. "You're my husband," she said, her voice steady despite the tears still tracking down her cheeks. "That's supposed to mean something. But if being my husband isn't good enough for you—if that's not enough to ground you, to give you purpose, to make you feel worthy—then yes, I'll leave you alone."
“But—"
"I believe you have what it takes to fix this," she continued, speaking over his protest. "I believe you're strong enough and smart enough and good enough to rebuild your life from these ashes. But you need to believe it too, Andrew. You need to figure it out on your own."
She adjusted the bag on her shoulder. "When you know who you are—truly know, not just which role you're playing—come find me. Tell me. Show me. Prove to me that Andrew Pasley is more than the Mayfair Fox. That he's enough just as he is."
"And if I can't?" The question came out small, terrified.
She smiled sadly. "Then I guess we'll both know the truth, won't we?"
She walked past him, her skirts brushing against his legs. He caught the scent of her perfume, citrus and something sweeter, and it made his chest ache.
At the door, she paused one last time." I just hope you love yourself enough to do the work."
And then she was gone.
Andrew stood in the empty drawing room as the sun rose fully, painting the walls with golden light. Chance whined from his position by the settee, looking between Andrew and the door as if trying to understand where his mistress had gone.
"She'll come back," Andrew told the dog. "She has to come back."
But even as he said it, he wasn't sure he believed it.
Because Isobel was right. He'd spent twelve years building an identity around the Mayfair Fox, using it as armor against the fear that he was just like his father. And now that armor was gone, burned away, and he was left with the one question he'd been avoiding his entire adult life:
Who was Andrew Pasley without the Mayfair Fox?
He sank back onto the settee, wincing as his bruised ribs protested. The room smelled like smoke and antiseptic and the lingering trace of Isobel's perfume.
Outside, he heard a carriage pull away. Taking his wife. Taking the one person who'd made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he was worth something beyond his accomplishments.
Chance jumped onto the settee beside him, resting his head on Andrew's thigh. Andrew absently stroked the dog's fur, staring at nothing.
The Mayfair Fox was gone. His wife had left. And he was alone with the wreckage of everything he'd built and the terrifying question of what came next.
He'd told Isobel he needed time to figure out who he was.
Now he had all the time in the world. He just hoped he'd recognize the answer when he found it.
Twenty-Nine
"You're back."
