Am I falling in love with Astrid?
The question barely has time to form before the answer arrives, unmistakable and absolute.
Of course I am.
How could Inotbe?
She’s light where I am shadow. Freedom where I’m duty. I would challenge any man not to fall in love with her.
And the most unsettling thought of all? She choseme.
Despite my rigidity and my reserve. Despite every wall I have so carefully built to keep the world at bay, to protect myself.
Somehow, she found her way through them anyway, and she’s worked her way right into my heart.
I’m falling for myfiancée.
A smile creeps across my face, and I can feel it all the way down to my toes. I am falling in love with Astrid more and more every day, and she’s drawing out a version of me I didn’t even know existed.
And what did I do last night after that spectacular kiss? I ran. I let all the reasons not to be with her get the better of me.
But now I know beyond a whisper of a doubt I want to be with her.
I need her to know.
I throw the covers aside, pull on a dressing gown, and open the door of my bedroom.
The windows and French doors stand bare, curtains undrawn, and beyond them the sun is beginning to peak over the mountain tops.
I come to a stop outside her door. I lift my hand, then hesitate. It’s still early. She’s probably asleep. I shouldn’t wake her. Even though I’m burning to share how I feel about her, I shouldn’t impose myself on her space after the way I left things last night.
But I’ve had enough of making excuses. I’ve had enough of hiding. I can push open the door. If she’s asleep, I will leave. But if she’s already awake, then perhaps she might be open to hearing what I didn’t have the courage to say last night.
The truth.
My fingers tighten around the handle, and quietly, so as not to wake her, I ease the door open.
For a moment, my mind refuses to make sense of what I’m seeing.
The bed is empty. The curtains are open and the pale morning light fills the room.
Astrid isn’t here.
A thousand explanations flicker through my mind. An early morning walk. Fresh air. Time to herself. But even as I come up with the possibilities, a tightness begins to build in my chest.
I cross the room in long, purposeful strides and pull open the wardrobe.
Empty. Nothing but hangers.
My pulse quickens. I push into the en-suite bathroom. Everything is pristine, exactly as it should be, no toiletries scattered across the counter.
The tightness in my chest sharpens.
It’s then that I see it, sitting on the bed. A note, and beside it, the ring.
My ring.
The family heirloom she has worn since the day I proposed, crouched on the living room floor, just wanting to get it over with. That ring may have started out as the symbol that once represented the union of two countries, but it has come to mean so much more than that.
