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“Of course it did, Ethan.”
“Then why am I getting dumped right now?”
“You wouldn’t be getting dumped if you’d just left it alone.”
“Why?” he pressed. “Why?”
I stayed quiet.
“Harlow.”
“Just because I enjoy being with you now doesn’t mean I want to be with you forever.” It was a harsh thing to say after he’d basically told me he loved me, but it was the truth. “Just because you won’t be my husband doesn’t mean I wanted it to end yet. Not every relationship needs to end with a happily ever after. Most don’t. But now that you’re forcing this conversation…it has to end.”
His expression hadn’t changed at all. His face was still hard as stone. He didn’t blink.
I felt like shit. “I’m sorry—”
“Because I’m an artist? Because I’m not rich?”
“No,” I said. “I just don’t love you.”
2
HARLOW
I sat in the nook beneath my windowsill, flipping my dagger out of the sheath before flipping it back. Back and forth I went, not paying attention to my movements because it was second nature at this point. My four-poster bed was unmade because I hadn’t left my quarters for the maids to clean. My sword leaned against the wall beside my bed. The curtains over the windows were champagne pink. My bedroom was in the corner of the castle, so I had a view of the village and the mountains in the distance.
A knock sounded on my door.
I continued to flip my dagger. “Yeah?”
The door opened, and my father appeared, dressed in his armor even though I’d never seen him ride into battle. His helmet was tucked under his arm. “Get dressed and grab your sword.”
I’d forgotten it was Wednesday. “I’m kinda tired today…”
He stared down at me like he hadn’t heard what I said.
I flipped my dagger back into the sheath.
His stare was still rock hard.
“We aren’t at war or anything—”
“But we must be prepared for it. I won’t ask again.” He walked out and shut the door behind him.
I gave a sigh and got dressed.
* * *
My father and I had been training my entire life. I was so young when we started that I didn’t actually remember when the training began. It was just something we’d always done, every Wednesday, the only exception when we’d all been bedridden with a terrible flu one winter.
My father was the best swordsman I’d ever seen. I watched him challenge multiple soldiers at once without getting a scratch on his armor. His core was always tight and his hits strong, so it was more of a dance than a battle.
I hoped to be as good as him one day, but I wasn’t sure if that was possible.
We moved to the field underneath the shade of the trees and began our session. He no longer instructed me. All we did was spar, because experience was the best teacher. He came at me with his blade and was stopped by my block. He kept up his advance, trying to drive me back, but I struck him with a flurry of blows then rolled out of the way to get the upper hand.
“Attagirl.” The better I did, the harder he pushed me, making me sweat so much my fingers became slippery on the hilt. Whenever I had a chance, I wiped my fingers on my leg just to dispel the moisture.
