The world narrowed. She could no longer hear the music or the hum of the ball—only her own breath, ragged and shallow.
“Father,” she whispered.
Heath’s grip on her hand tightened—but gently. “Blanche, wait.” But she was already walking toward him.
She felt the air leave her lungs as if she’d been struck. Her feet moved before she could think—each step muffled by the thick rug, each heartbeat a cannon blast in her chest.
How could he be here?
Her mind scrambled for reason, for logic, for anything that could explain this sudden reappearance, this hallucination wrapped in well-worn evening wear. The same tilt of the chin. The same mouth that had told her—so coldly—that her worth depended on silence and obedience.
She was grateful for the gloves now, if only because they kept her hands from trembling. Or showed him less of it, at least.
She wanted to run to him. To sob into his chest and ask why. Why he hadn’t written. Why he’d let her believe he was dead. Why he had left her alone to carry the weight of his shame and ruin, but that desire twisted against a hotter truth—she alsowanted to slap him. To scream. To throw every ache he’d planted inside her back into his face.
How dare he show up now, when I have clawed myself out of the wreckage he left behind?
Her vision blurred at the edges. Rage laced with disbelief. Love corrupted by time. Shame blooming in her chest like an old wound torn open.
The ball had become a stage, and she the unwilling lead in a play she hadn’t auditioned for. She could feel eyes turning—curious, calculating. The prodigal father. The disgraced daughter.
Heath’s warmth was gone from her side, but she still felt the ghost of his hand, anchoring her.
She should have stayed. She should have screamed. She should have collapsed.
But she kept walking, chin high, eyes wide toward the man who had made her. And unmade her.
Twenty-Four
Heath had to sprint to cut her off before the crowd could. One moment she was walking away from him, toward her father, and the next, his hand was at her back—light, steady, guiding. She didn’t resist, but her eyes never left the man standing in the garden.
“Come,” he said quietly—firm, but not unkind.
He caught Blanche by the wrist and drew her away from the lawn, past the gilded glow of lanterns and the murmurs blooming behind them.
He had not planned for this—not tonight. But fate, it seemed, had little regard for timing.
Blanche followed without question. Her steps were light, swift, her breath catching more from emotion than exertion. She hadn’t yet asked where they were going, which told him she was still somewhere between memory and disbelief.
“What’s he doing here? Did you plan this?” Her voice was dreamlike, dazed.
As they crossed the threshold of the west corridor, the noise dulled behind them. The music faltered. Or perhaps he only imagined that.
From the terrace, Lady Gooldwer’s voice rose in clipped horror:
“I will not have that man near my family—not tonight, not ever!” Then, somewhat muffled. “Fanny, do not look at him. We are leaving. Fetch your coat.”
Fanny’s voice was softer but resistant. “But Mama, Father is still…”
“Now, Fanny.”
Heath didn’t glance back. The doors closed behind them.
They reached the crimson hallway outside the conservatory. Blanche stopped, her eyes glass-bright.
“You brought me inside,” she said breathlessly. “Heath, that was my father.”
“I know.”
