Guinevere instinctively took a step back, her discomfort palpable as she met Weston’s cold gaze. He said nothing, but the weight of his stare made her feel small. Trying to regain some control, she quickly looked away.
“My parents… they told me they would pass by today,” she stammered, her voice soft as she explained. “They decided to stop by since they were in the area.” She trailed off, hoping the explanation would clear the air, but Weston didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he merely stared at her, his silence more telling than any words could be.
Finally, he spoke, his tone curt. “It’s late. I’ll send you home.”
Guinevere felt her chest tighten. “Are you really going to send me away at this hour?” Her voice trembled despite her best efforts to stay composed.
Weston’s expression remained unreadable, his features frozen in place. His eyes, however, grew colder by the second. He didn’t respond, but the silence between them stretched out like a thick fog, and Guinevere felt a pang of sadness in her heart.
Without thinking, she closed the door behind her and walked up to him, wrapping her arms around his waist in an almost desperate attempt to hold onto something, anything. She buried her face in his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her cheek.
“I’ve been so anxious… I feel like you’re slipping away from me,” she murmured, her words a plea. “Do you mean it? When you promised my parents that you’d marry me, do you really intend to follow through?”
For a long moment, Weston’s arms remained stiff at his sides. He didn’t return her embrace, nor did he speak. The distance between them grew, more than just physical, as if something had shifted irreparably.
When he finally spoke, his voice was distant, almost mechanical. “First, we need to get a medical checkup.”
Guinevere pulled back, confusion flickering in her eyes. “Why do we need a checkup?” she asked, her mind racing to make sense of his words.
“It’s the procedure,” he answered matter-of-factly.
Guinevere felt a knot form in her stomach, but she didn’t press the issue. Instead, she shifted her focus to something else, hoping it would bring her closer to him. “Can I stay here tonight?” she asked softly.
She leaned her head back onto his chest, her body seeking warmth and comfort. As she did, her hands—bold and hopeful—wandered down to his waist, a clear invitation. She didn’t need to say more; the message was clear.
Before she could go any further, Weston’s hand shot out, gripping her wrist with an ironclad hold. He ripped her away from him, his gaze cold and unreadable.
“It’s late. I’ll send you back,” he stated firmly, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.
Guinevere’s heart clenched as frustration flooded her. “No!” Her voice cracked, raw with emotion. “I don’t want to go back! Why do you keep pushing me away when we’ve come this far? I’ve let go of my pride, my dignity—what more do you want from me? Are you still angry with me because of Stella?”
The mention of Stella’s name seemed to shatter the calm, and Weston’s expression darkened instantly. His eyes were like a storm, turbulent and unreadable. The silence between them grew, thick with unspoken words, until he finally spoke again, his voice hoarse.
“You’re overthinking this,” he muttered, though there was no conviction in his tone. “It’s just not convenient for you to stay here without your things.”
Guinevere’s chest tightened at the coldness of his words. Her grip on him faltered, and her heart sank. He had never flat-out rejected her, but his words—always so carefully measured—pushed her away in ways no direct refusal ever could. He kept her at arm’s length, never fully letting go, but never fully letting her in, either. It was like a cruel game, and she was growing weary of playing.
She closed her eyes, taking a steadying breath, trying to calm the storm within. “Fine,” she said quietly, the weight of her resignation evident in her voice. “If you insist, send me back. But know this—I have plenty of time to wait for you.”
Her words were a quiet defiance, but they were laced with a deep sadness. She turned away from him, walking toward the door with a steady pace, though her heart was breaking with every step.
She was Guinevere—the woman who never admitted defeat. And yet, in this moment, she realized how much she had already given, how much she had compromised, and it still wasn’t enough. Weston was unreachable, and it hurt more than she could express.
As she wiped the tears from her eyes, she tried to push the hurt aside. Once they were married, once they were legally bound by the marriage certificate, everything would change. They had a child together, after all. Stella, the woman from Lowe Garden, and any other ghost of his past—they wouldn’t matter anymore.
She would no longer care about the shadows that haunted him.
By the time she returned to her apartment, the night had grown late, and with it, the emptiness she felt deepened. The silence in her apartment echoed her loneliness, but in the stillness, a quiet determination began to form.
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