Chapter 54: Memories of the Past.

Julian's London Residence - Midnight

The door creaked shut behind him with a heavy groan, muffling the clatter of hooves as the carriage rolled away into the night.

Julian Hartmoor stood alone in the dimly lit entryway of the townhouse he now temporarily called home. It wasn't grand but it was quiet and well-kept, far removed from the grandeur his family once commanded.

A modest inheritance from a distant cousin whose death had offered Julian both a roof and a reminder that life was often a series of strange, ill-timed favors.

He shrugged off his coat and tossed his gloves on a side table, exhaustion clinging to his frame like a second skin. But it wasn't the kind of weariness sleep could fix. A servant greeted him, but Julian waved the man off with a nod and made his way upstairs.

With slow steps, he moved into the study his sanctuary of quiet and ghosts. Shelves lined with worn books stood like old sentinels around the room. He lit a lamp and walked straight to the worn wooden desk in the corner.

Julian crossed to the antique writing desk tucked in the corner and unlocked the top drawer. Beneath a layer of yellowed letters and pressed sprigs of lavender, he pulled out a small, worn leather case.

He sat, breath held, and opened it.

There she was.

The delicate portrait of Evelyn, painted when she was barely sixteen. Soft, dark brown hair tied back with a ribbon, her smile restrained in a way only a lady trained by society could be, but her eyes...God, those eyes held all the fire and dreams that once made his world feel alive.

Julian sat down, staring at the portrait in silence.

His hand trembled slightly as he reached to touch the edge of the frame.

"She looked at me like I was her whole world," he murmured to no one. "And I destroyed it."

He touched the edge of the frame with his thumb, and the memories bled through like wine on parchment.

Five Years Ago

The Hartmoors had been a proud family once. Old money. Old blood. But pride could not pay debts.

His father, Lord Alistair Hartmoor, Julian's father, was once known as a brilliant investor, a clever speaker, and a cunning man. But brilliance without restraint was a dangerous thing.

He had wagered everything on a string of ventures in the East India trade: ships, tea, silk, opium but when war erupted and the shipping lines crumbled, so did their fortune.

Debts mounted like corpses in the walls. Servants stopped getting paid. His father began to drink. And his mother… his mother started to unravel. One by one, the assets vanished: lands sold, servants dismissed, creditors at the gate.

Julian's mother, Lady Vivienne, had always been a woman of grace. Elegant and reserved. The daughter of a marquess, she had married for love, a foolish, romantic love that bound her to a man who would ruin her.

She fell ill almost immediately after the repossession. The servants had already fled. Julian found her one morning sitting in the cold parlor, still in her nightgown, staring at the empty into nothingness.

"He promised me a life," she whispered, hands folded neatly in her lap. "He promised… and now look."

Three days later, she was gone. No illness. No wound. Just… gone. Some said it was heartbreak. Others said she took something while Julian slept. He never asked the physician.

And his father?

Lord Hartmoor vanished. Disappeared under the veil of night, leaving no letter, no apology. Some said he boarded a ship to France. Others claimed he was seen in a brothel in Prague under a false name. Julian never looked for him.

He was dead to him the moment he let Vivienne die in despair.

Julian had stood in that cemetery, papers in hand, Evelyn's engagement ring still burning a hole in his pocket, while his mother was being buried.

He remembered the way Evelyn had smiled up at him in those golden autumn afternoons, believing the world would fall at their feet.

He couldn't bear to watch that belief shatter.

So he made a choice.

He left her.

He ended it cleanly, cruelly even, using words sharp enough to draw blood.

He remembered the way Evelyn had looked at him when he tried to explain. She had wept, begged him to let her stand beside him.

But he had already made up his mind.

"I won't pull you into the rubble with me," he had told her, voice tight, hands cold. "You deserve more than a man who can't give you a roof or bread."

Then he disappeared. Took a ship. Spent years in trade across the Indies, earning back what had been lost coin by coin. He made a name for himself in ports where no one cared about the Hartmoor crest. Where no one remembered Evelyn Ashcombe's tear-streaked face the day he left.

Now - Present

Julian stared down at her portrait, jaw tight.

Julian leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face.

"I wonder," he whispered, "would you have waited if I asked you to?"

The portrait said nothing.

He smiled bitterly. "Of course you would have. And that's why I had to go."

He wrapped the portrait again, placed it back in the drawer, and shut it.

But even with the drawer closed, Evelyn's face lingered in his mind more haunting than any storm he'd weathered at sea.

Because now she wasn't his.

And now she was married. A duchess. To the Duke of Wycliffe, no less. Powerful. Cold. Respected. Dangerous.

But even knowing all that, even after the years and the oceans between them… his heart still beat a little faster looking at her face.

Julian closed the case and leaned back, eyes fixed on the ceiling as the fire cracked beside him.

"She was never meant for this world," he murmured to the dark. "But I'll be damned if I let it swallow her."

He poured himself a drink, throat dry, resolve slowly hardening in his chest.

He was back in England.

And so were his ghosts.