And if she went upstairs…if she crossed that threshold…she would be choosing something else first.Something that could not be unsaid.Something she could never pretend had been an accident.
Her conscience clawed at her.Tell him now.Tell him before you let him touch you again.Before you make this—makehim—a refuge.
But another voice, stubborn and very much her own, rose up beneath the fear.
This is my life,it said.My choice.
Her father had been choosing for her for years.Society had been choosing for her.Even B.Adroit—brave as that secret life was—had been a version of herself she could only inhabit in shadows.
Tonight, for once, she wanted to choose something in the light.
Not because she was weak.
Not because Nicholas was irresistible—though he was.
But because she was tired of living like every decision must be a sacrifice offered to other people’s expectations.
And because—damn him—Nicholas always looked at her as if she mattered.
If she confessed now, she risked losing that in an instant.Losinghim—his respect, his protection, his regard—before she even knew what it felt like to have it.
And if she was going to blow up her life, she wanted it to be on her terms.
Nicholas didn’t move.Didn’t press.He simply waited, breath hot at her throat, his hands stilling as though he was holding himself back by sheer will.
“Bea,” he said, almost smiling, though his eyes were still dark and serious.“I will walk you out that door right now if you want me to.We can pretend we had tea in this drawing room and try to mitigate the damage.Or…”
“Or?”she whispered.
He held out his hand.“Or you can come upstairs,” he said.“And tell me whatever it is that is gnawing at you…after.”
After.
After she’d let herself want him without apology.After she’d taken one selfish thing for herself.After she’d proven—to him and to herself—that she wasn’t being cornered into this.
She stared at his hand.
The fork in the road jabbed her beneath her ribs.The safe path, where she clung to principle like armor…or the dangerous one, where she admitted that desire could be a choice too.
Her mother would call it a scandal.
Her father would call it unforgivable.
Society would call it ruin.
Bea called it something else entirely.
Revolt.
She lifted her chin, steadying her breath, and made herself look at Nicholas—really look—so he would know she understood exactly what she was doing.
So he would know she was not being carried, not being convinced.
She’d made her decision, and she was walking.
She placed her hand in his.“Upstairs.”
