His words, though reassuring, could never still the storm that lived within me.The longing was my constant companion, an ache that never eased, not even in dreams.Our life was a mosaic of fragments, scattered moments snatched from time’s cruel hand—a look, a kiss, a whisper of his name against my lips.And though they were fleeting, they were everything—my treasure, my torment.
A tear slipped free before I could stop it, trailing down my cheek.I brushed it away, chastising myself for the indulgence.Tears would not bring him closer, nor would they hasten the next letter, the next reunion, the next reminder that I still existed in his world.
With a shuddering breath, I folded the letter and returned it to its place.Then, with numb fingers, I reached for my needle again.The fabric tugged beneath my hands, the rhythmic pull of thread through cloth anchoring me to the present, to the illusion of normalcy, I wore like a second skin.
But as I stitched the hem of Lady Harrington’s gown, my thoughts remained tethered to Amir, like a thread tied around my soul.Each loop and knot were a silent prayer, a message sent out into the void—a hope that somewhere, he felt my fierce and undiminished love.
Somehow, he knew—no matter the distance or silence—our love endured.
Ceaseless as the turn of the earth.
Boundless as the sky.
Roman entered the room then, shifting the air, commanding attention as Amir once had.He moved with a certainty that belied his youth, his stride solid, purposeful, each step a quiet echo across the wooden floor.
He stopped behind me, gaze flicking over my shoulder, his eyes locked on the lace trim I was stitching.
“Your stitches are impeccable, Mother,” Roman said, his voice rich, warm—a timbre so like Amir’s it struck something deep within me.Bittersweet nostalgia bloomed in my chest, sudden and aching, like a wound reopened.
“Thank you, my dear.”I smiled at him, my eyes lingering on the familiar lines of his face.In his features, Amir lived again—the strong jaw, the proud nose, the intensity that radiated from him in waves.Only his eyes, vivid and storm-blue like mine, marked him as distinctly my own.
“How are you?”I asked, needing to tether us to something safe.“Have you finished your studies?Have you been well?”Yet as I spoke, I knew.His mind was elsewhere, reaching far beyond the confines of this townhouse, beyond the life I had carefully crafted to keep him safe—and ignorant.
“Quite,” he replied, but his eyes held a storm, his thoughts dark and distant, unspoken and simmering.
Roman had grown.Not just into a man—but into a force.One who carried his father’s blood and, unknowingly, his father’s destiny.
“Your father would be proud,” I murmured, my fingers pausing mid-stitch.The words slipped out before I could catch them, and my heart swelled with a fierce, painful pride.
His eyes snapped to mine.A flicker of something dangerous ignited in his gaze.
“Would he?”Roman’s voice was low, coiled tight.“Is that why he abandoned you?Abandoned me?”The words dripped with disdain.“Is that how he shows his regard for his son?”
His sneer was a lash, and I flinched—not from surprise, but from the familiar sting of Amir’s long-ago command, echoing in my mind like a curse I could never outrun.
He must despise me.
Promise me, Elizabeth.
Make him hate me.
Prepare him for what’s to come.
And I had.
Gods help me, I had.
“Undoubtedly,” I said, masking the tremor in my voice as I returned to my stitching, each loop of thread a lifeline I could no longer grasp.“You have his determination, his strength.And like him, you carry a sense of destiny that cannot be denied.”
He scoffed, harsh and hollow, but I saw the flicker of something haunted in his eyes.And for a fleeting heartbeat, Amir stood before me, not Roman.A ghost of love and loss, shadowing the man my son was becoming.
“Destiny...”Roman echoed, his voice a murmur, his gaze turning inward.That word held weight—a future just beyond the horizon, both promise and peril wound together.It was the same look Amir wore when duty called him away, the same steel in his spine, the same fire in his blood—a resonance that defied time, defied absence.
“Indeed,” I whispered, placing the final stitch, my hands numb.I tied off the thread with trembling fingers, but there was no sense of completion—only the sense of something slipping away.
“Mother.”Roman’s voice cut through the hush.He stood before me, Amir’s reflection in the flesh, save for those sapphire eyes—mine, and mine alone.
“What is it?”I asked, though dread coiled tight in my belly.
