Emma watched it burn, feeling something shift in her chest. Not quite courage. Not quite peace. But something like determination. When Charles came, and he would come, she'd be ready. Ready to tell him the truth. That she loved him too much to run. That she'd fight beside him no matter the cost. That seven-year-old Emma had been right all along. Some promises were meant to be kept.
The knock came at midnight. Emma was still awake, standing at her window when she heard it. Soft. Urgent. Insistent. She flew down the stairs, not caring that she was in her nightgown and robe, that her hair was loose, that propriety demanded she wake a servant first. She opened the door.
Charles stood in the winter darkness, his chest heaving like he'd run the entire way. Snow dusted his hair and shoulders. His eyes were wild. Desperate. Alive. Emma, he gasped. Ben told me. The debts. The fraud. There's a way out. And I, he stopped, drinking in the sight of her. Tell me you're still here. Tell me you didn't take her money. Tell me.
Emma stepped forward and kissed him. Not gently. Not tentatively. With every ounce of determination she'd spent weeks trying to suppress. Charles froze for a heartbeat. Then his arms wrapped around her, lifting her slightly, pulling her close as if he could fuse them together through sheer will. The kiss was desperate and honest and tasted like snow and second chances.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Emma kept her hands on his face. I'm still here, she whispered. I burned the money. I'm not leaving. I'm going to fight for you, Charles Blackwood. For us. And I don't care how hard it gets. Charles's eyes closed, a shudder running through his entire body. Emma, I love you. And I'm not running anymore.
The scandal. The gossip. It will be brutal. I know. Beatrice will make our lives hell. I know. It could take years to rebuild. Years of closed doors and whispered insults and, Charles. Emma forced him to look at her. I don't care. Do you understand? I don't care about any of it. I care about you. Only you.
Something in his expression cracked. Years of control. Years of duty. Years of pretending he was made of stone. All of it shattered. And Charles broke. He buried his face in her shoulder and wept. Great shaking sobs that came from somewhere so deep they seemed to tear him apart. Emma held him, her own tears falling, her hands gentle in his hair.
I've got you, she whispered. I've got you. You don't have to be strong anymore. Not with me. They stood like that in the doorway, snow falling softly around them. Two broken people holding each other together. And for the first time in 18 years, Emma felt like she'd come home.
They moved inside before the neighbors could see, before scandal could spread faster than they could contain it. Emma led Charles to the drawing room, his hand still gripped tightly in hers. He looked wrecked. Eyes red. Hair disheveled. Coat damp with melting snow. Nothing like the controlled duke she'd seen at the New Year's ball. He looked human.