Chapter Text
Penelope rushed out of the room, her heart hammering in her chest as if it might escape her. Her breath came in short, uneven gasps, each one a desperate attempt to hold the pain at bay. Her fingers brushed her forehead, wiping away the heat of emotions that still burned within her. Then they trailed down to her lips, as if trying to understand the kiss they had shared, the silence of words left unspoken by her sudden departure. Finally, her hand found its way to her abdomen—an unconscious gesture, a painful reminder of how everything had begun. Passion. Reckless, blind passion. His passion, his desire, his surrender to a fleeting moment of weakness. And hers? She had always loved him.
Her pulse thudded in her ears, and she leaned against the cold wall. The weight of it all pressed down on her, suffocating. He had been so many things—imperfect, vulnerable, maybe even envious, as he said. And she had always wanted him. But now... now she wasn’t sure what she was left with.
She had been foolish, harboring dreams and fantasies she should have known better than to believe. She had craved him for years, in ways she couldn’t admit to anyone else. But lately, Colin had revealed himself—his flaws, his insecurities. And she... she still wanted him. She was indulgent, despite knowing what she should have done.
She pressed her palm to her stomach again, her chest tight. Time and time again, she had told herself she was done with him. That she would move on. But every inch of her body betrayed her, reminding her of the connection they had shared. The things they had once been.
The sound of the door creaking behind her made her jump.
Colin.
She didn't turn to face him right away, not trusting herself to do so. She expected him to argue, to demand she stay, to force some resolution. But he didn’t. He stood there, silent, the distance between them more pronounced than ever.
He took a cautious step forward, his gaze never leaving her. His voice was rough when he spoke, laden with an emotion he wasn’t sure how to express. “Please, Penelope. Don’t go. Don’t do this alone. Let me be here for you. At least until I know you’re okay.”
She stiffened at his words and turned slowly, her eyes locking onto his. There was no softness left in her expression—only the sharpness of someone who had been wounded too many times.
“And what if I’m not okay?” she whispered, her voice trembling with the rawness of it.
His breath caught in his throat. He wanted to say something, to say the right thing, but there were no perfect words anymore. He had used them all up, squandered them. “I can’t stand seeing you like this and have you gone. Please don’t shut me out. Let me be there for you.”
She laughed—a short, bitter sound. “Be there for me? You left me to pick up the pieces of a marriage that was never whole to begin with.” She shook her head, bitterness thick in her voice. “When were you ever truly there, Colin?”
He flinched but kept quiet. She needed to lash out. And he had to let her.
“You never came to me when I truly needed you,” she continued, voice barely above a whisper. “Not in those first months, when I felt myself disappearing before your eyes. You were too busy with your anger, your own shame over having me as your wife. And now you want to play the devoted husband?”
His jaw tightened. He felt like arguing. But the words felt hollow. “I’ve been a fool,” he admitted, his voice strained. “I know that now. I’ve made so many mistakes. And because of them, I’m asking you to give me a chance. I want to be the husband you deserve. I want to be here—for you and our child.”
Her heart stuttered at the mention of the child. It was too much. She closed her eyes, squeezing back the tears. She didn’t know what she wanted anymore. “And what if I don’t want you to be? What if I don’t want this—this mess?” Her voice broke on the last word. “You’ve done enough, Colin. You’ve made your choices. And now it’s too late.”
His throat tightened. “It’s not too late. Not when there is still so much love between us, despite all the hurt. I never, ever meant to hurt you.”
“Then why did you?” she whispered, her voice a hollow echo. “Why did you?”
Colin took a slow step forward but didn’t reach for her. He stood there, inches away, the tension thick, oppressive.
Penelope's breath hitched. She wanted him to come to her. To make things right. But part of her also wanted to push him away. To make him feel the same pain she had felt for so long.
For a moment longer, she stood trembling, waiting for his next step.
“Please,” he pleaded. “Just stay. Stay here. With me.”
She hesitated, exhaustion pressing down on her. Despite everything, she didn’t want to be alone either.
He stepped aside, gesturing toward his room—not commanding, not demanding, just offering. She hesitated before walking past him, wary. He did not touch her, did not try to hold her back. But he followed, slow and careful, until they were both inside once more.
“You should lie down,” Colin said. “On the bed. You need to rest.”
She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Your bed?”
Colin nodded. “I won’t lie in it. I swear. I will respect you.”
A bitter smile curled at her lips. “That would be a first.”
The words were a dagger, and Colin felt them sink deep. He did not fight them. He deserved them.
Six months of marriage, and he had never truly shared her bed. Not the way a husband should.
Her pulse pounded. Endless nights wondering why he never came to her, why he never wanted her the way a husband should want a wife. The rejection had chipped away at her, night after night, until there was nothing left but cold resignation.
And now? Now he was telling her to rest in his room?
Because of the baby? Because of guilt?
Her throat tightened. They were broken. Shattered. They could not pretend. Not now.
“I don’t need your pity, Colin,” she said, voice flat. “Or your charity.”
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He only gestured to the bed again.
She swallowed hard. She wanted to walk away. But exhaustion weighed down her limbs.
She stepped toward the bed, hesitated. Then, with a quiet sigh of defeat, she lay down.
The silence crackled with unspoken truths.
She wanted him. But she could not forgive him.
She wanted to yield. But she was too hurt.
She loved him. But she did not trust him.
She suffered. And some part of her needed him to suffer too.
Neither of them was able to sleep.
She lay still, staring at the ceiling, battling the storm in her mind. At some point, she broke the silence.
"I’m doing better. I should move to my own bedroom,” she said, trying to stand up before wincing and lying back again.
“You’re in pain. And, once again, it’s my fault.”
“It’s nothing new, trust me. If you want me to stay, I will. But you can go. I don’t expect you to spend the night here, Colin," she said softly, her voice hollow. "We’re both uncomfortable. You are free to go. In fact, to go anywhere you want."
His jaw clenched. "Free? Is that what you think this is? I already told you it isn’t. I didn’t leave because I wanted freedom.”
"Really? You wanted to be away from me, bloody Lady Whistledown."
"I broke my vows, Penelope—before God, before witnesses. And I failed you. I refused to see you for who you truly were, when I let my own insecurities consume me instead of fighting for you."
Her breath hitched, and she turned her head toward him. "Lady Whistledown was never meant to be a secret from you, Colin. But now, knowing what I know, I wonder if I should regret not telling you sooner—or wish you had never discovered at all."
He flinched. But he did not turn away.
"You’re right," he admitted. "The revelation made me irrational. And stubborn. And foolish. And it cost me more than I ever imagined."
He shifted, resting his forearms on his knees, staring at his hands. "I see things clearly now. But I know my words aren’t enough. Not anymore. And I have a long way to go to prove myself to you, if you let me. I want nothing more than to be with you. And to be a loving a father to our child."
Her throat tightened. "Before this, you should have realized that you already were," she whispered her confession. One that broke him. "To me, you were always enough. None of it needed to happen."
Colin closed his eyes briefly, holding his tears at bay.
They did not speak after that.
At some point, she fell asleep, exhaustion finally overtaking her. Only then did Colin move.
In his own solitude, he felt the weight of his failures press upon him. He had thought, foolishly for a moment that touching her again would somehow mend what was broken between them. That words, followed by actions showing his passion, his desire, his need for her, would erase the past. But Benedict’s voice echoed in his mind: Words are not enough. Nor is touch. He could not undo months of distance with a single act of desperation.
Driven by an urgency he did not fully understand, he got out of the couch, walked to his wardrobe, and pulled open a drawer. His fingers brushed over the worn leather covers of his old journals he had saved there, away from the prying eyes of people who could enter the study where he now slept. There were pages that were filled with ink, with thoughts, with dreams. With her. A sharp breath left him. He needed her to know. Needed her to see. And so, with careful hands, he selected the one he had carried during his latest travels—the one where she had been ever-present in the margins of his mind.
By morning, he was already gone.
When she awoke, the room was empty. Her heart lurched before she spotted the folded parchment resting beside her.
For a moment, she could not move.
The last note he had left her had shattered her. The words had burned into her mind. This is not working.
She did not want to read another. Did not think she could bear it.
But then—her hand instinctively moved to her stomach. And with a steadying breath, she reached for the note.
If you will grant me the honor, I would like to speak with you.
Her fingers curled around the parchment, holding it tightly.
It wasn’t an apology.
It wasn’t an ultimatum.
But she did not know if she could grant him a new beginning, either.
She was afraid to find out.
As she dressed, he was already seated in the dining room, the journal placed purposefully on the table before him. He had barely touched his food. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, evidence of a sleepless night spent unraveling himself. Benedict entered, studying him for a long moment before pouring himself a cup of coffee.
"You’re here. And you look like hell," he murmured.
Colin let out a hollow laugh. "I feel worse."
Benedict took a slow sip. "But at least you’re here. Now tell me, do you blame her?"
Colin met his gaze, weary. "No."
Benedict exhaled, nodding slightly. "Then there really is light at the end of the tunnel." He set his cup down, his expression unreadable. "Just don’t push her limits. Not now."
Colin tensed, his grip tightening around his cup. For a fleeting moment, he wasn’t sure if Benedict knew what had transpired the night before—if he sensed the rawness of it, the fragile line Colin had nearly crossed. But Benedict didn’t elaborate, only held his gaze for a second longer before looking away, as if leaving the thought unfinished on purpose.
Silence stretched between them before footsteps approached the doorway. Both men turned.
Penelope stood there, hesitating. Her gaze flickered between them, then to the object on the table. The journal. Her expression shifted, subtly but unmistakably.
Memories surfaced—their afternoon on the chaise, when their baby was conceived, the way she had teased him about reading more, the way he had promised her more pages. He had promised.
She did not speak, but Colin saw it—the recognition, the ache, the longing.
Benedict stood, offering her a knowing glance as he passed. As he walked by, his hand brushed lightly over the curve of her stomach. “Priorities change,” he murmured.
Penelope stiffened. She had expected those words to be about her—about the baby. But something in Benedict’s tone, in the way his eyes flickered briefly to Colin before he left, made her pause. It wasn’t just about her.
It was about Colin, too.
Colin, who had made mistakes. Colin, who had hurt her. But Colin, who—despite all his flaws—hadn’t strayed.
Her throat tightened.
Colin pushed back his chair, stood, and—without a word—pulled out the seat for her.
For a moment, she considered walking away.
She hesitated, her gaze flickering back to the journal. The memories were there, but they did not erase the pain. He held it out to her.
"What do you expect me to do with this?" Her voice was quiet but steady.
"Read it," Colin said, the vulnerability in his tone unmistakable. "Or don’t. But at least let it sit there until you decide."
Penelope pressed her lips together. A part of her wanted to turn away. A part of her wanted to tear the journal in half. But another part—one she wasn’t sure she should listen to—wondered if, buried in those pages, there was something she had never truly seen before.
She let out a slow, uneven breath.
Then, cautiously, without commitment, she slid into the seat.
It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t surrender.
But perhaps, it was a place to begin.
A silent offering. A truth laid bare.
He watched the slow rise and fall of her breath. He knew she would read it. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow. But one day.
And when she did, she would see him—the real him. The man who had loved her, who had feared her lack of need for him, who had failed her.
The man who still hoped she might still love him.
He would wait. However long it took.
And if she never did—if she never saw him—he would love her still.