Poppy had shown him that. That to feel, it wasn’t always nice. It wasn’t always easy. But it was the truth. Truth was power. It was strength. To feel, to sit with those feelings, however hard they were—it was what living was.
He had not been living for so long. He’d convinced himself his strength differed from his father’s. But it hadn’t been different. He had been out of control, just like his father, running away from anything…real. Squashed it as if it wasn’t important.
Somewhere inside him, he’d known all along that facing his emotions—his feelings—was the only way to move forward. To be his best self. He’d preached it for years to his staff. He’d got help for his wife. But he could not help himself.
Today, it was for Isaak. It was in part for Poppy. But he’d done it for himself. He was done lying. He was done pretending he didn’t feel.
He thanked his son for that. For waiting for him. For showing him he could lie down. He could let himself rest. He could let himself…feel.
He thanked her too. For loving him—for trying to get him to open himself to love.
He hadn’t been ready to love her.
He was ready now.
He’d hurt her, he knew.
He didn’t deserve her forgiveness.
He didn’t deserve her love.
But he hoped she’d seen him. That Léon had shown her. That she understood what today meant. That she realised their son… Isaak…and Poppy, they had changed him. Going forward—
He stumbled. The revolving doors to the outside were just there. A few more steps, and his journey going forward would be different. He would be alone.Again.But everything was changed now, he knew.
He could never go back to being the man he’d been. Either man. His father’s son or the man he’d created to counter it. His DNA.
He’d just be whatever this was. Whoever he was. He would just be it. A man who…felt.A man who allowed himself to feel. And right now, he felt hollowed out. He knew what would fill the void. He knew it would only be her. It was only everher.But he knew he couldn’t fix what he’d done.
It was out of his control now.
Life, it always had been.
He was not a god.
He was not the devil.
Konstantinos pushed through the revolving doors.
Cameras flashed in his face.
Security surrounded him, and led him through the throng to his waiting car.
His gaze drifted over the journalists being pushed behind a barrier—
He stopped dead. Statue-still.
She was…here.In grey sweats, her hair in a loose pony-tail…
‘Poppy,’ he breathed.
She was being pushed back with the others as if she were no one to him. As if she weren’t his—
His heart dropped to his stomach.
She wasn’t his wife any more.
He could keep walking, couldn’t he? He could look away from her too round, too blue eyes. He could walk away and pretend it did not hurt to see her there. That it did not pain him she stood so far away when his arms ached to hold her.
