"Yes." Isobel turned to face her sister. "I gave him exactly what he asked for. Time and space to figure out who Andrew Pasley is without the Mayfair Fox defining him."
"But you're hurt," Joan observed. "I can see it in your eyes."
"Of course I'm hurt!" The admission burst out of her. "I stood there watching him fall apart, and all I wanted was to help him. To hold him. To tell him everything would be all right."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because it wouldn't have helped." Isobel sank back onto the bed. "Don't you see? If I stay and try to fix this for him, I'm just enabling him to keep avoiding the real issue. He needs to believe in his own worth, not just rely on me to tell him he's worthy. He needs to choose to be my husband, not just default to it because I'm there."
Joan studied her for a long moment. "You've changed."
"Have I?"
"You have—in a good way. So, you think he can fix this?" Joan asked. "On his own?"
"I know he can." Isobel's voice was certain. "Andrew is brilliant and strong and capable of anything he sets his mind to. He rebuilt an entire Dukedom from nothing. He created a successfulbusiness from the same vice that destroyed his father. He's more than capable of figuring out who he is without the club."
"But?"
"But he has to want to do it." Isobel met her sister's eyes. "He has to want to be whole for himself, not just for me. And I can't force that. All I can do is give him the space to figure it out and hope that when he does, he'll realize I'm worth fighting for."
"Of course you're worth fighting for," Joan said fiercely. "You're worth everything."
Isobel smiled sadly. "I hope Andrew comes to that conclusion too."
They sat in silence for a moment, the morning sun streaming through the window.
"What will you do now?" Joan asked finally.
"Wait," Isobel said simply. "And hope."
The hours bled together.
Andrew sat in his study at Foxdrey House, staring at the ledgers spread across his desk without really seeing them. Numbersswam before his eyes—accounts, investments, properties. He had more money than he could spend in several lifetimes.
And none of it mattered.
Chance lay at his feet, occasionally whining and looking toward the door as if expecting Isobel to walk through it at any moment. The dog had barely eaten since she left, and Andrew couldn't blame him. He'd barely eaten either.
Mrs. Brendan kept bringing trays of food that went untouched. The staff moved through the house like ghosts, speaking in hushed voices as if someone had died.
Perhaps someone had. Perhaps the Andrew Pasley who'd existed before the fire was gone, and what remained was just a hollow shell wearing his face.
A knock at the study door made him look up. "I said no visitors."
The door opened anyway.
Norman strode in, his expression thunderous. "Good morning to you too, cousin."
"Norman." Andrew turned back to his ledgers. "I'm not in the mood for company."
"I don't care." Norman crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy without asking. "You look like hell."
"Thank you. Your observational skills are as sharp as ever."
"When did you last eat?"
"I'm not hungry."
