“I didn’t come to hurt you,” Lord Gooldwer said quietly.
Blanche looked at him, not with fury, but with a sadness that felt heavier than rage ever could.
“I know,” she said. And for the first time that night, she wasn’t sure if that was true either.
Even now, as Lord Gooldwer spoke in that hushed, halting voice—so familiar it unraveled a hundred memories with each syllable—she couldn’t seem to stop touching his sleeve.
Blanche’s fingers remained at his elbow, as though anchoring him would keep the truth intact.
He looked worn, remorseful, human, and she so desperately wanted that to mean something.
“I didn’t come for charity,” Lord Gooldwer said. “I came because I remembered what mattered. Because I realized what I’d left behind.”
Heath shifted slightly behind her. There was no sound, no protest, but yet, Blanche felt it, that quiet, impossible weight.
Her father continued. “I know what I did. I know what it costs. But I want to earn my way back. I want to fix what I broke.”
Let it be true…Her pulse was hammering.Let something good come of this.
Then Heath’s voice came low—steady, quiet as frost. “Then tell her everything.”
Lord Gooldwer faltered. “I already?—”
“No,” Heath cut in, and Blanche turned sharply at the tone. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “Tell her where the money went. Tell her how long you stayed with Clara. Tell her how many letters you didn’t write.”
“Heath—” she began.
But he stepped forward, his eyes never leaving Lord Gooldwer’s. “You want to rebuild? Then, begin with the truth.”
Lord Gooldwer opened his mouth. Closed it, and in that fragile hesitation, a sliver of clarity wedged itself into Blanche’s chest.
She glanced between them—father and husband, loyalty and disillusion, both of them looking at her like the answer was hers to give. A thousand thoughts tumbled against her ribs.
Heath had visited him. He’d known. All this time, while she grieved, while she stitched together scraps of memory to keep from falling apart—he had known.
Her voice was quiet, barely more than a breath.
“You knew where he was all this time…” Her voice trembled, but she didn’t look away. “You knew how much pain I was in. Then why did you say nothing?”
The question split the room like a blade.
Heath stilled. His mouth parted, then closed again. His expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes did.
“I had a plan,” he said at last.
Blanche’s breath caught. “The plan should have included me!”
“It wasmyplan. If I needed your help, I would have shared it with you sooner. He’s not trustworthy, and you know it. Don’t stand there pretending he isn’t.”
“You wanted control,” she said, her voice low. “Even now, that’s what you want.”
Heath didn’t argue. He didn’t deny it. And that, somehow, made it worse—not because it confirmed her fears, but because it confirmed his restraint.
Her gaze dropped to the floor, then lifted again, searching his face. “Do you remember that night in the dining room? When I cried about him? When I told you I didn’t know if I hated him or missed him more?” Her voice cracked, soft and aching. “You held me. You didn’t flinch. You said I wasn’t alone.”
“I meant what I said,” Heath said quietly.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” she asked. “Why let me fall apart in your arms if you already knew?”
