The evening air was crisp, carrying the distant hum of conversation and the scent of dying embers from the manor’s hearths. Cavendish Manor was still, but within its walls, everything was changing.
I watched from the shadows of the terrace as Victor and Eleanor stood together in the glow of candlelight. She leaned into him, her head resting against his shoulder, and he held her as if she were the only thing anchoring him to this world.
It was a scene I had once imagined for myself.
A foolish dream.
I had known—perhaps from the very beginning—that Eleanor Fairchild was never meant to be mine. And yet, knowing did not make the acceptance any easier.
There was no bitterness in my heart, only a quiet ache. Eleanor had made her choice, and I would not begrudge her happiness. Victor had won her heart, and despite my doubts, I could see that he was trying to be the man she deserved.
I turned away from the sight, exhaling slowly.
It was time to let her go.