Chapter 11
I ended the engagement the next morning.
Privately.
No ballroom spectacle.
No humiliation.
Scarlett stood in my library wearing no ring.
I returned it in a small box.
She did not take it immediately.
“Keep it.”
“No.”
“Throw it away.”
“No.”
She looked frustrated.
I pushed the box closer.
“It belongs to the person who wore it.”
That was the problem with our relationship from the start.
Too many people treated symbols as ownership.
Her father’s death owned her anger.
Cassian owned the story.
The Vaughns owned expectations.
I nearly owned her future through a marriage that never began honestly.
Enough.
She took the box.
“Do you hate me?”
“Yes.”
Truth.
She flinched.
Then I added:
“That may change.”
Not promise.
Not forgiveness.
Just time.
She nodded.
“I threatened Iris.”
“Yes.”
“I knew the drink was altered.”
“Yes.”
“I let my family into your house.”
“Yes.”
Every fact.
No softening.
Then she said:
“I thought you murdered my father.”
“I know.”
“Does that matter?”
“Yes.”
Hope flickered.
“Not enough.”
It died.
Necessary.
Understanding motive does not erase agency.
She asked what happened to her family.
Those who knowingly participated lost Westbrook access.
Those who arrived believing Scarlett was in danger were escorted out without punishment.
Different guilt.
Different consequence.
Her uncle, who tried to reach my father’s room, was finished with us.
Cassian?
She asked last.
I looked toward the window.
“Cassian and I have more years to discuss.”
Thirty-two years, actually.
Childhood.
First fights.
First funerals.
My father trusted him.
I trusted him.
Betrayal accumulates weight through history.
Scarlett walked to the door.
Then stopped.
“Iris deserves more than an apology.”
“Yes.”
She looked back.
“I don’t know how to give her that.”
May you like
For once, I respected the uncertainty.
“Start by not asking her to make you feel forgiven.”
