Chapter 16
Scarlett and I met again eighteen months later.
Her request.
My choice to accept.
No romance.
No ring.
She looked different.
Not physically.
Less polished around pain.
She had listened to Anthony’s recording many times.
Too many, probably.
“My father knew Cassian was dangerous.”
“Yes.”
“He still went to meet you.”
“Yes.”
“He trusted you.”
“I think so.”
She cried.
Then:
“I punished you for sparing him.”
That was one way to say it.
Another:
She almost handed my house to men who lied to her.
Both true.
She asked about Cassian.
Living quietly.
No Westbrook role.
No Scarlett.
She had not contacted him.
Good.
Not my decision.
Then she said:
“I finally apologized to Iris without sending it.”
I raised an eyebrow.
She explained.
She wrote everything.
Then realized sending it would make Iris carry her remorse again.
So she kept it.
That showed more growth than most speeches.
We talked about Anthony.
Not us.
Better.
Before leaving, Scarlett took something from her bag.
One cufflink.
Not Cassian’s.
Anthony’s.
A simple silver square.
She placed it on the table.
“My father wore these the night he left.”
I stared.
“Why give it to me?”
“I’m not.”
She smiled sadly.
“I just wanted you to see it.”
Then she put it away.
Good.
Not every object needed transfer.
Not every memory needed ownership.
At the door she asked:
“Do you think we would have married if Cassian never lied?”
Impossible question.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
“I don’t know.”
She nodded.
May you like
“Good.”
We had both learned to stop forcing certainty onto things that never got the chance to become real.
