“Christian—”
“And they would grow up proud,” he continued, his voice beginning to fray. “Proud of their father, proud of their heritage, proud of the family we built together. They would know, every day of their lives, that they were loved without condition. That nothing about them—not a birthmark, not a quirk, not a flaw—could ever make us love them less.”
Fiona was weeping openly now, her tears soaking into his chest. He held her tighter, his own breathing ragged, and she felt the moment when his composure finally began to crack.
“I want it,” he choked out. “Blast it, Fiona, I want it so badly. I want the wedding and the honeymoon and the children. I want to grow old with you and watch our hair turn grey. I want all of it. Every single thing.”
“Then take it,” she whispered. “Take me. Choose us.”
“I can’t.” The words broke from him like a sob. “I can’t. I would destroy you. I would—”
“You keep saying that. But you’re destroying me now.”
She pushed herself up, looking down at him in the candlelight.
“This—this leaving, this pushing me away—this is what’s destroying me. Not scandal, not gossip, not my father’s threats. You. Your fear. Your conviction that you are not worthy of love.”
“I am not—”
“You are.” Her voice shook, but she did not falter. “You are worthy, Christian. You have always been worthy. And I will spend the rest of my life regretting that I could not make you see it.”
He stared up at her, his face wet with tears, his expression utterly shattered.
“I am sorry,” he whispered. “Sorry that I am not brave enough. Sorry that I cannot be the man you deserve. And most of all, sorry for the pain I have caused you, Fiona—for every hope I have disappointed and every dream I have undone.”
She bent and kissed him, tasting salt and grief and goodbye.
“I forgive you,” she said against his lips. “But I will never stop hoping that you’ll change your mind.”
Dawn came, as dawn always does, indifferent to the breaking hearts beneath its light.
Fiona lay in Christian’s arms and watched the sky shift from black to grey to pale, watery gold. Neither of them had slept. Neither of them had wished to waste a single moment of their final hours together.
“It’s morning,” she said quietly.
He did not answer. His arms tightened around her, and she felt his breath catch. He was fighting the same battle she was—the desperate urge to pretend the night had not ended, to cling to the fragile illusion a little longer.
But moments cannot be held. Time does not pause. And the world, with all its demands and cruelties, was already pressing in.
“I should dress,” she said. “Molly will be wondering—”
“Stay.” The word tore from him. “Just a few moments more. Please.”
She stayed. Of course she stayed. She would have stayed forever if he had asked it of her.
But eventually—inevitably—she had to rise. She had to gather her clothes, smooth her hair, and transform herself once more into Miss Fiona Hart: respectable gentlewoman, scandalous houseguest, woman with a broken heart.
Christian watched her dress in silence. He did not offer to help—did not move from the bed at all—and she understood why. If he touched her again, he might not be able to let her go.
When she was finally presentable, she turned to face him.
“I will wait,” she said quietly. “However long it takes. If you change your mind—if you find the courage you think you lack—I will be there. Ready.”
“Fiona—”
“Don’t.” She lifted a hand. “Don’t tell me not to wait. Don’t tell me to move on, to find someone else, to forget you. I could not do it even if I tried. You have ruined me for other men, Christian Hale. I hope you know that.”
He made a sound that might have been a laugh, or might have been something far more fragile.
