Chapter 50: A Path Chosen

The morning light streamed through the wide windows of my study, casting golden hues over the scattered papers on my desk. The sight was unfamiliar—no meticulously drafted reports, no correspondence dictated by duty. For the first time in my life, I was writing for myself.

I dipped my quill into the inkwell, letting the rich black ink stain the parchment as I sketched out my thoughts. It was a journal entry—an indulgence I had never allowed myself before.

"A man is often defined by the expectations placed upon him. But what remains when he steps beyond them?"

I sat back, watching the ink dry.

For years, I had been William Hastings, the respectable gentleman, the dutiful heir, the man who always did what was required. The one who had loved a woman who would never be his, who had accepted a future dictated by others.

But now?

Now, I was something else entirely.

The decision to leave London had not been an impulsive one.