Betrayal.
She closed her eyes briefly.
Who can I trust?
Her mother, who would surely be in hysterics.
Her father, who had deceived her.
Mary, who had struck her.
The thought nearly sent her spiraling again, had she not remembered one thing.
Darcy.
He had come for her.
He had not hesitated. Had not questioned. Had not turned away when things became complicated or inconvenient.
He had believed her.
Chosenher.
Protected her.
Even now—when everything about her might be called into question—he had chosen her still.
Elizabeth let out a slow breath, her body gradually relaxing against the mattress.
I can trust him.
That, at least, was sure.
The quiet tick of a clock somewhere in the house broke the silence.
Then, distantly, it began to chime.
Elizabeth counted them, her breath evening with each one.
One.
Two.
She opened her eyes.
Two o’clock.
In a matter of hours, she would stand before the altar.
Whatever else might be uncertain—her name, her family, her past—
That moment would be real.
Elizabeth let out a slow breath.
In less than ten hours, she would be Elizabeth Darcy.
The thought did not frighten her; it steadied her.
