Page 117 of The Betrothal

I stood, dragging in the deep breath I needed, knowing what I’d find when I looked at him.

His eyes, illuminated barely by the light coming from the dressing room, the curtains not drawn – by me – on purpose.

His frown matched my pain, and I couldn’t even pretend to smile.

He did, though, and it was agony.

I grimaced, fighting the tears.

I stood, looking down on him. Eventually, he simply nodded, so I snuck into the dressing area and picked up my bag.

Returning to pass the bed, I took one last look at them, sprawled over the mattress.

Seb hadn’t moved, his lips parted, mouthing silent words, and a tiny sob broke free. Tears streamed down my face, and I did nothing to stop them.

I closed my eyes, carefully replying without a sound.

“I love you too.”

Then I moved. I moved as quickly as silence would allow. The door was ajar, this one not by my design.

I stole across the hall, carefully avoiding the creaking floorboard, downstairs and placed the bag onto the table. Pulling free extra layers from the top and dressing with haste, I felt for the snacks and bottle of water I stored there yesterday under the guise of one of my many suspicious bathroom breaks.

The men thought I was crying. I was.

Shoes, coat, gloves, all on. I unlocked the door and stole out into the morning light.

The snow was half-melted. Enough to be on my way.

I knew the path. I knew the route.

I knew I needed to move, because if I didn’t do so right now, I would collapse under the weight of my heartbreak.

I wanted to run, to sprint, to see if the speed of my exit could condense the sharp agony of it. But my thundering feet and the risk of falling, well, that would have me back inside the house. Another way I wouldn’t be leaving.

I rounded the lake, passed the workshop, the tether between my heart and theirs stretching until I didn’t think I could take the pain pulling me back to them, doubting my future and wanting to take the risk.

I could marry Seb. I wanted to. My father could accept it. I’d be ostracised from society – not that it would be a loss to me.

I knew it wasn’t that simple. Alex knew it wasn’t that simple, but it hurt, and the offering of silly paltry excuses and justifications made me feel like, for the tiniest sliver of time, I wasn’t dying.

In reality, though, I was dying. This was killing me.

And when I couldn’t bear it anymore, I ran.

I felt zero pleasure at how easily I wound my way across the fields until I saw the houses of the village. If anything, I wished I’d become more lost.

I felt exposed, no phone – something that hadn’t bothered me when I was making a wild dash from the cottage to the hotel, but I also now had no way to tell how I was doing on time.

The watch I’d drowned on my journey a month ago still refused to tick, like a reminder of when my old life had ended and the new one begun. The new one with Seb, and with Ben, and even with Alex.

A life I hadn’t the imagination to conjure up.

A life that had also expired.

I tugged my coat higher around my chin and trudged through the watery snow into the village.

I knew well enough that I was a missing person; I also knew that in a village like this it could go one of a few ways. Either the village was so tightly knit that a single newcomer would garner tremendous attention. Or, they had so many tourists coming and going, being as close to the port of Dover as it was, that I would be a face amongst hundreds, if not thousands, of tourists.