Chapter 7: The Hollow Ache of Wanting (Main Character’s Point of View)

Caspian did not approach me that night.

Nor the next.

But something had changed.

His presence no longer lingered at the periphery, carefully restrained, distantly patient. No—it clung.

Like a shadow stretching too long at dusk. Like a storm on the horizon that refused to break.

I could feel him wherever I went.

Watching.

Waiting.

But for what? Permission? Salvation? He had yet to understand—I would grant him neither.

And so, I let him suffer.

I continued as if nothing had shifted, entertaining other conversations, dancing with men who could never hope to hold my attention, pretending that the weight of his stare did not amuse me.

I let him think that if he was patient, if he endured just a little longer, I would reward him.

But I did no such thing.

Because patience was not a virtue I intended to let him keep.

The next time I saw him, he was fraying at the seams.

It was a garden party at the Duke's estate, an affair of idle chatter and feigned politeness. I had been speaking with a nobleman—some forgettable thing—when I felt him.

The sharp presence of him.

Not close enough to interrupt, but too close to ignore.

A test.

Would I acknowledge him? Would I allow him my attention?

I continued speaking as if I had not noticed him at all.

But I made certain to tilt my head just so, to let my laughter spill softer, to brush my fingers against my throat in idle distraction.

Not for the man in front of me.

For him.

And oh, how he seethed.

He had not expected this.

He had thought I would break first.

But the thing about patience is that once you take it away, once you starve a man of it for long enough—it turns to desperation.

And desperation…

Desperation is where a man truly begins to break.

That night, I knew he would come.

He had spent too long in my shadow, too long grasping at something I would not grant him, and now the tension had nowhere left to go.

So I waited.

Not in the usual places he had come to expect me—no crowded ballroom, no garden gathering. I let the world fall away, let the night settle deep into its hush, and made certain that when he finally snapped—we would be alone.

I stood on the terrace of my estate, the air cool against my skin, the stars stretched endless above me.

And then—

Footsteps.

Not hesitant.

Not uncertain.

But slow.

Measured.

Like a man walking toward something he did not yet understand, but could no longer deny.

I did not turn.

I only smiled.

Because at last—

He had come to me.