The single word shattered something inside her. She stared at his back, at the rigid line of his spine, at the way he refused to face her.
“I thought you were making progress.” She heard the tremor in her own voice but could not stop it. “I thought we were building something real.”
“We were building a distraction.” He turned then, and his face was carved from stone. “An indulgence. One that nearly cost Oliver his life.”
“He scraped his knees!” Sophia’s voice rose. “He got lost in a park and scraped his knees. He was not kidnapped. He was not killed. He was frightened and hurt, and we found him.”
“This time.” Edward’s jaw clenched. “What about next time? What about the next moment when I am so consumed with wanting you, I forget to watch him? When I fail him the way I failed Leonard?”
The truth of it hit her then. This was not about today. This was about years of guilt and grief, wounds that had never healed, and fears that ran deeper than she had understood.
But understanding did not ease the pain of his rejection.
“So that’s it.” She straightened her spine, refusing to let him see her break. “You would rather retreat into coldness than risk feeling something real.”
“I would rather protect Oliver than indulge my own weakness.”
“Loving someone is not a weakness!” The words tore from her throat. “Letting yourself be happy is not weakness! But you are so determined to punish yourself that you would destroy everything good in your life rather than accept that you deserve it.”
Edward flinched. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Pain. Doubt. The barest crack in the armor he had rebuilt.
Then it was gone.
“This was a mistake.” His voice was final. “All of it. Getting involved. Letting myself believe that I could have…” He stopped. Shook his head. “It ends here.”
Sophia stared at him. At this man who had held her through the night, who had whispered promises against her skin, who had looked at her like she was the answer to every question he had ever asked.
And who was now shutting her out as though none of it had ever happened.
“Very well.” She heard her voice as though from a great distance. Cold. Brittle. “If that is what you want.”
She turned and walked to the door. Her hand closed on the handle. She paused, some part of her hoping he would call her back, would tell her he did not mean it, and that he would reach for her the way he had reached for her so many times before.
Silence.
She opened the door and walked out, closing it behind her with a soft click that echoed like a gunshot in the quiet house.
The days that followed passed in a haze of careful avoidance.
Sophia took her breakfast in her chambers. Edward took his in the study. They passed each other in corridors with polite nods and empty eyes, strangers inhabiting the same house.
The servants noticed. Of course, they noticed. But they said nothing with their faces carefully neutral as they navigated the sudden chill that had descended upon Heatherwell House.
Sophia poured herself into caring for Oliver.
The boy was shaken after his adventure in the park, prone to nightmares and clinginess in a way he had not been before. Heasked for Sophia constantly, wanted her beside him while he played, while he ate, and while he drifted off to sleep.
She gave him everything he needed. Read to him until her voice grew hoarse. Painted endless pictures of horses and dragons and families holding hands. Held him when the nightmares woke him, stroking his hair until his trembling stopped.
“Where is Uncle Edward?” Oliver asked one afternoon, looking up from his painting with troubled eyes.
Sophia’s chest tightened. “He is very busy with work, sweetheart.”
“He does not come to see me anymore.” Oliver’s lower lip trembled. “Is he angry with me? Because I got lost?”
“No.” Sophia gathered him into her arms. “No, Oliver. He is not angry with you. He loves you very much.”
“Then why doesn’t he come? I miss painting with him. He was getting awfully good at painting clouds.”
