Trigger Warning: Part of Molly’s story depicts her wrestling with a nonconsensual sexual event in her past. As a survivor of sexual assault myself, I’ve tried to write these scenes as sensitively as possible but be advised that some readers may find portions of this story difficult to read.
I felt her absence long before I opened my eyes, long before I sat up and began thinking coherent thoughts. I felt her absence in the cool sheet at my side, in the gnawing pit in my chest, in the emptiness in my heart.
I had woken up alone every morning for the past nine months. This morning was no different.
No different at all.
I sat up, dug the heels of my hands in my eyes and tried to ignore the tears burning at the backs of my eyelids.
Castor—also known as the Baron or, more formally, as Lord Gravendon—paced by the doorway to the morning room. The smell of breakfast still hung in the air, and the sun had not yet beat away the morning fog. “And she left without a word?”
I stood with my forehead pressed to the cool glass of the window, not bothering to look away from the mist-covered lawn. “She did.”
“That’s never been her way. The quiet way.”
“That’s how I know she means it. The leaving. Last night was a farewell for her.” I took a deep breath and mustered the courage to utter the next words out loud. “She never intended on staying.”
The Baron paused his movements. “Does she know yet? About her fiancé’s connection to the board?”
I sighed. “No.”
Molly was engaged to Hugh Calvert, a viscount who also happened to be a cousin to the leader of her company’s board, Frederick Cunningham. A fact that we were positive she didn’t know, and yet were unsure how to bring up. Because effectively, what did it change? She was still forced to marry Hugh, she still had no legal recourse to change that, and she’d made it clear that my interference in her upcoming marriage only brought her pain.
Except.
Except I still planned on interfering. As much as possible.
A footman entered the room with a low bow, a letter resting on a silver salver. “Mr. Cecil-Coke. A message, sir.”
The Baron and I exchanged equally confused glances. I walked over to the footman, thanking him for the letter, taking it back to my spot at the window.
I unfolded the letter, skimming quickly through the words as my heart began to pound.
The Baron, perhaps noticing my excitement, stepped forward. “Is it from Molly?”
“Even better,” I said, tucking the letter into my pocket and making my way to the door. “It’s from my banker.”
“Good news?”
“The best. Where’s Julian?”
When my fiancé stormed into my house, I was sitting peacefully at breakfast, reading one of the morning papers, blowing on a fresh cup of tea—my broken heart safely hidden and all signs of the night I just shared with Silas sluiced away with hot water and soap.
Hugh came into the dining room looking ready to do battle, with color high in his cheeks and breathing fast, his normally handsome features folded into an expression of pure, indignant rage. But when he saw me sitting there, fresh and serene and very obviously involved in a leisurely breakfast, he paused.
“Good morning, Hugh,” I said pleasantly. “Sleep well last night?”
