The lakeside mansion rose ahead. Dark windows stared back like hollow eyes. No lights. No warmth. Just stone and glass and emptiness.
My stomach dropped.
What if he meant it? What if don't come back wasn't protection but rejection? What if I'd waited too long, pushed too hard, broken something irreparable?
I pulled into the driveway. Killed the engine. Sat trembling in sudden silence.
The house loomed. Shadows gathered in corners. Something felt wrong.
I climbed out slowly. Gravel crunched beneath my shoes. Cold air bit my face. The lake whispered behind me—low, endless, indifferent.
I walked toward the front door.
Stopped.
Stared.
The window beside the entrance—shattered. Glass glittered on the stone steps like broken stars. A chair leg jutted through jagged edges. Inside, darkness. Destruction. The aftermath of rage I recognized because I'd felt it building in him for weeks.
He'd destroyed something. Maybe everything.
My breath hitched.
I climbed the steps carefully. Avoided the glass. Stood on the threshold between wanting and having, fear and faith, the woman I'd been and the one I was choosing to become.
My hand lifted. Hovered over the door.
What if he didn't answer?
What if he did—and sent me away again?
What if I'd misread everything? What if his softness was strategy, his care was control, his protection was possession and nothing more?
I swallowed hard. Knocked anyway.
The sound echoed. Hollow. Final.
Silence stretched.
My throat closed. Tears burned fresh tracks down my cheeks.
I pressed my palm flat against the wood.
"Please still want me."
The words hung in cold air.
I waited.
Trembling.
Desperate.
Choosing him anyway.
The door swung open.
Not Gideon.
