You've changed, she said softly, because she didn't know what else to say. A bitter smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. So have you. I'm not a child anymore. No. His eyes raked over her face, her hair, the pale curve of her neck above the lace collar. Not in a way that objectified, but in a way that memorized. You're not. Emma swallowed hard. The air between them felt charged, electric, like the moment before lightning struck. She could feel the heat radiating from him even though he hadn't touched her. Could hear the faint hitch in his breathing.
Why are you here? she asked, her voice barely audible. I could ask you the same question. I was invited. By my cousin. She thought it might be good for me to reintegrate into society. Charles laughed. A short humorless sound. Reintegrate. As if you could just step back into a world that condemned you. I didn't have a choice. There's always a choice, Emma. Not for people like me. His expression darkened. He stepped closer still, so close now that she could smell him. Rain and cedar, and something richer, earthier, tobacco maybe, or leather, something distinctly, undeniably him.
People like you, he repeated slowly. You mean people who ran away? The accusation stung. Emma's hands trembled as she pulled them behind her back, hiding the evidence of how much his words affected her. I was 7 years old when my father destroyed everything. What would you have had me do? Stay and be mocked, pitied, turned into a cautionary tale for every debutante in London. You could have trusted me. You were 12, Charles. I would have protected you. How? The word came out sharper than she intended, tinged with desperation and old grief.
How could you have protected me? You were a boy. I was a child. And the world, her voice broke. The world doesn't care about promises made by children. Something flickered across his face. Then pain. Raw and unguarded. It lasted only a second before he locked it away again, his features smoothing into that impenetrable mask he wore so well. You're right, he said quietly. I was just a boy. Emma's heart twisted. She wanted to reach out, to touch his hand, to tell him she hadn't meant it that way. But the distance between them felt insurmountable now, even though they stood less than 2 feet apart.
Why did you come to the conservatory? she asked again, softer this time. Charles's gaze drifted to the fogged glass walls, the jungle of green around them. I needed air. The ballroom was, he trailed off, his jaw tightening, suffocating. Yes, she breathed. It is. His eyes snapped back to hers. And for a moment, just a moment, she saw the boy he'd been, the lonely, angry boy who'd hidden in gardens and climbed trees to escape the weight of his father's expectations.
Do you remember the fountain? he asked suddenly. Emma's breath hitched. Yes. You told me you'd marry me. I was seven. You promised. Her chest ached. Charles, I waited for you. His voice was rough now. All pretense of control slipping. I waited for years. Every ball, every season. I thought maybe this time, maybe she'll come back. Maybe. He stopped, his hands flexing at his sides. But you never did. I couldn't. Or you didn't want to. That's not fair. Fair. He laughed again, bitter and broken. Nothing about this is fair. Emma, you left. I stayed. And now you walked back into my life on the last night of the year, looking like, like, he didn't finish. But the way he looked at her, like she was a ghost, a dream, a wound that had never healed, said everything.
Emma's eyes burned. She blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall. I shouldn't have come tonight. No, Charles said quietly. You shouldn't have. The words were meant to hurt, and they did. Emma felt them lodge somewhere deep in her chest, sharp and cold. She turned away, her skirts rustling softly as she moved toward the door, but then his voice stopped her. Emma. She froze, her hand on the door handle. Stay. It wasn't a command. It was a plea. She turned slowly, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might crack her ribs. Charles stood exactly where she'd left him, his hands still clenched at his sides, his expression unreadable except for his eyes. His eyes begged.
Why? she whispered. Because if you leave now, I'll spend the next 18 years wondering what would have happened if you'd stayed. The clock in the ballroom began to chime. Midnight. The sound echoed through the conservatory, slow and deliberate, each toll marking the death of the old year and the birth of the new. Emma looked at Charles, at the boy she'd loved, at the man he'd become, and made a choice. She let go of the door handle and stayed.
The chimes faded into silence, leaving only the muffled sounds of celebration from the ballroom, cheers, glasses clinking, the swell of violins playing a waltz to mark the new year. But here in the conservatory, time felt suspended, frozen between what was and what could never be. Emma stood with her back to the door, her hand still hovering where the handle had been. She could feel Charles's gaze on her like a physical touch, heavy and searching. Her pulse hammered in her throat.