The hospital corridor had become a second home to Henry Wynthorne. The antiseptic smell, the fluorescent lighting, the hushed voices of doctors and nurses—all of it was now painfully familiar. He sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair outside his father's room, his tie loosened, dark circles under his eyes. Astrophysics journals and NASA application materials were scattered on the chair beside him, untouched for weeks.

"Henry?"

He looked up to see Verity Langford walking toward him, carrying two cups of coffee. The sight of her made his heart skip, even after six months of dating. She was wearing a pale blue sundress that made her look like she'd stepped out of a magazine, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders.

"I thought you might need this," she said, handing him one of the cups. "How is he today?"

Henry accepted the coffee gratefully. "Better. The doctor says his vitals are improving. They're talking about discharge plans."

Verity's face lit up. "That's wonderful news!" She sat down beside him, placing her hand on his. "See? I told you he'd pull through."

Her touch calmed him, as it always did. In the months since his father's collapse at the school event, Verity had been his anchor. She'd visited the hospital nearly every day, bringing food, books, or simply her presence. Henry had never expected to find love in such circumstances, but watching her gentle interaction with his father, the way she remembered all the nurses' names, how she managed to bring light into the sterile hospital room—it had made him fall harder for her than he'd thought possible.

"I don't know what I would have done without you," he said, squeezing her hand.

Verity smiled. "You would have been fine. You're stronger than you think, Henry Wynthorne."

A nurse emerged from his father's room. "Mr. Wynthorne is asking for you," she said.

Henry nodded and stood, still holding Verity's hand. They entered the room together. Robert Wynthorne looked frail against the white hospital sheets, but his eyes were alert.

"There you are," he said, his voice stronger than it had been in weeks. "And you've brought your guardian angel."

Verity laughed softly. "Hardly an angel, Mr. Wynthorne. Just doing what anyone would do."

"Not anyone," Robert said, his eyes moving between Verity and his son. "Not everyone would spend their senior year in a hospital room."

Henry felt a pang of guilt. His father was right. While other couples their age were going to parties and planning for college, he and Verity had spent most of their time here.

"It's been worth it," Verity said, and Henry could tell she meant it.

The doctor came in then, clipboard in hand, and confirmed what the nurse had said earlier—Robert was improving steadily and could be discharged within a week, provided he adhered to a strict regimen of medication and rest.

"And no work," the doctor emphasized, looking pointedly at Robert. "At least not for the next month."

Robert grumbled but didn't protest, which told Henry just how serious this had been. His father never backed down from a challenge, especially when it came to Wynthorne Industries.

After the doctor left, Robert turned to Henry. "This means you'll need to step up more at the company. Just temporarily, of course."

Henry felt a familiar tension in his shoulders. "Dad, we've talked about this. I have applications to finish—MIT, Caltech, NASA's research program—"

"Space can wait," Robert interrupted, his voice sharp despite his weakened state. "This obsession with the stars isn't going to put food on anyone's table, son. Wynthorne Industries is real. It's here. It matters."

Verity squeezed Henry's hand, a silent message to let it go for now. Henry took a deep breath and nodded, though the words stung. His father had always dismissed his dreams as childish fantasies, unable to understand Henry's burning desire to explore the cosmos, to contribute to humanity's greatest journey.

"We'll figure it out," he said, though the words felt hollow.

---

Two weeks later, Henry sat across from Verity at Bellini's, the Italian restaurant where they'd had their first official date. His father was home now, and though he still needed care, he was well enough that Henry felt comfortable taking an evening away.

"To your father's health," Verity said, raising her glass of sparkling water. At eighteen, they weren't old enough for wine, though the maître d' had winked and offered it anyway.

Henry clinked his glass against hers. "And to you, for putting up with all of this."

Verity shook her head. "Don't thank me for supporting someone I care about."

They fell into a comfortable silence as they looked at their menus, though Henry wasn't really seeing the words. His mind was on the stack of Cleveland Enterprises reports waiting for him at home and the Cambridge application that remained half-finished on his laptop.

"You're thinking about it again," Verity said, not looking up from her menu.

"About what?"

"Cambridge. The company. Your father. All of it." She set down the menu and reached for his hand. "Talk to me, Henry."

Henry sighed. "I don't know what to do. The application deadline is in two weeks, and I haven't even finished the personal statement for MIT's astrophysics program. Dad keeps sending me company documents to review. And every time I mention space research, he changes the subject."

"What do you want?" Verity asked, her blue eyes serious.

"I want to study astrophysics. I want to work for NASA, maybe even go to space someday. I want to be part of humanity's next great leap." His voice grew passionate. "There's so much we don't know about the universe, Verity. Dark matter, exoplanets, the possibility of life beyond Earth. I could be part of discovering that."

Verity nodded slowly. "And what about your father? Wynthorne Industries is his life's work. He built it from nothing."

"I know that," Henry said, frustration creeping into his voice. "And I respect him for it. But that doesn't mean it has to be my life too."

"But maybe it does," Verity said gently. "At least for now. Henry, your father nearly died. The doctor said stress was a major factor. If you leave for Cambridge now..."

She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to.

"So I'm just supposed to give up my dreams?" Henry asked, withdrawing his hand from hers.

"Not give up. Postpone." Verity's voice was soft but firm. "Running Wynthorne Industries wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, you know. You'd be good at it. And there's so much good you could do with that kind of influence and resources."

Henry stared at her. "You sound just like him."

"Is that such a bad thing? Your father is a brilliant businessman. He's respected. Successful." She leaned forward. "Henry, some people would kill for the opportunity you have. A clear path. Security. Purpose."

"Space research is my purpose," Henry insisted, his voice rising slightly. "It always has been. Since I was eight years old and you helped me build that telescope for the science fair."

Verity's expression softened at the memory. "I remember. But Henry, that was a child's dream. This is real life."

The waiter arrived then, and they placed their orders in strained silence. When he left, Verity reached for Henry's hand again.

"I'm not saying give up on Cambridge forever. Just... delay it. A year or two. Help your father get the company back on stable ground. Then, if you still want to go, you can." She smiled. "And I'll support you, whatever you decide."

Henry wanted to believe her, but something in her tone made him doubt. "Would you? Even if it meant being apart for years?"

Verity hesitated, just long enough for Henry to notice. "We'd make it work," she said finally. "But I think you might find that running Cleveland Enterprises suits you better than you expect."

Henry didn't argue further, but the conversation left him uneasy. For the first time since they'd started dating, he wondered if Verity truly understood him at all.

---

The next day, Henry arrived at the hospital for his father's follow-up appointment to find an unexpected figure sitting in the waiting room.

Lavinia Hartwell sat with perfect posture, a thick financial report spread across her lap. Her dark hair was pulled back in its usual neat ponytail, and she wore a crisp white blouse and tailored black pants that spoke of quiet professionalism. She looked up as Henry approached, and he was struck by how different her eyes were from Verity's-dark where Verity's were light, calculating where Verity's sparkled with warmth.

"Henry," Lavinia said, closing the report with decisive efficiency. He hadn't seen much of her since he and Verity had started dating. She was still Verity's best friend, of course, but she'd always seemed to make herself scarce when he was around-not from shyness, he realized now, but from choice.

She stood, smoothing her blouse with practiced efficiency. "I was dropping off financial analysis for your father."

"Financial analysis?"

Lavinia nodded. "Company projections and market assessments. He asked me to review them." She tucked the report into her leather briefcase. "Your father has some... concerns about the quarterly forecasts."

Henry frowned. "He's supposed to be resting. No work."

"This wasn't work for him," Lavinia said, her tone crisp and matter-of-fact. "Just for me. I think he needs to feel connected to something meaningful, Henry. Complete isolation from the company might be more harmful than helpful."

Henry did know his father well enough to recognize the truth in that. Robert had never been good at sitting still, even before the illness.

"How did you get involved with Wynthorne Industries?" he asked.

Lavinia's smile was small but sharp. "I have a mind for numbers and market analysis. Your father mentioned some discrepancies in the projections during one of Verity's visits. I offered to take a look." She paused. "It's not charity, Henry. I'm good at this."

"Good" was an understatement, Henry knew. Lavinia had always been exceptional with mathematics and economics-subjects where she consistently outperformed even Verity at school.

"Did you find anything?" he asked.

"A few minor errors. Nothing serious." She picked up her book, seeming eager to end the conversation. "I should go. I have a class at noon."

"Wait," Henry said, not sure why he was stopping her. "How is he? Really?"

Lavinia's expression became more serious. "He's frustrated. Worried about the company's future, though he tries to hide it. But he's also determined-stubborn, really. He'll recover, Henry. He just needs time and the right kind of support."

Henry nodded, struck by how perceptive her assessment was after just a few business meetings with his father.

"Thank you," he said. "For helping. I know he can be... demanding."

Lavinia's smile returned, confident and assured. "I can handle difficult men, Henry. Your father respects competence. Show him you know what you're talking about, and he'll listen." She shouldered her briefcase. "He reminds me of my grandfather-brilliant, stubborn, terrible at showing weakness. The trick is not to let him bulldoze you."

She left then, moving through the waiting room quietly, almost as if she were trying not to be noticed. Henry watched her go, feeling a strange mixture of gratitude and unease.

---

The months that followed settled into a pattern. Henry divided his time between the hospital, where his father underwent regular check-ups and treatments, and Cleveland Enterprises, where he reluctantly took on more responsibilities. His Cambridge application sat untouched in a drawer of his desk.

Verity remained a constant presence, bringing light and warmth to even his darkest days. They celebrated their one-year anniversary with a weekend trip to the coast, where for a brief, glorious forty-eight hours, Henry managed to forget about the hospital, the company, and all the ways his life had derailed.

On the beach, with the sun setting over the water and Verity's hand in his, he told her he loved her for the first time.

"I know," she said, smiling up at him. "I've known since the day your father collapsed, and I saw the way you looked at me when I helped him."

"You were amazing that day," Henry said, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "You still are."

Verity leaned into him. "We're going to have a wonderful life together, Henry. Once your father is better, once the company is stable... we'll have everything."

Henry nodded, pushing away the voice in his head that whispered about Cambridge and science and dreams deferred. Verity was his dream now. That would be enough.

---

Six months later, just as Robert Cleveland seemed to be recovering his strength, disaster struck again. Henry received the call at three in the morning-his father had collapsed at home and was being rushed to the hospital.

By the time Henry arrived, Robert was already on a ventilator, his condition critical.

"What happened?" Henry demanded of the doctor. "He was getting better. You said he was getting better."

"These things can be unpredictable," the doctor said, her face grave. "The damage to his heart from the first episode was more extensive than we realized. We're doing everything we can, but you should prepare yourself-"

"No," Henry interrupted. "No, I'm not 'preparing myself.' He's going to be fine."

But as the days passed and his father remained unconscious, Henry felt his certainty waver. He barely left the hospital, sleeping in the uncomfortable chair by his father's bed, leaving only when the nurses insisted he go home to shower and change.

Verity visited daily, bringing food that Henry barely touched and offering comfort that couldn't reach him. They had plans-Cambridge had accepted him for the fall semester, despite his late application, and even his father had grudgingly given his blessing.

Now, all of that seemed meaningless.

It was on one of these endless hospital days that Henry, exhausted and despairing, encountered Lavinia again. She arrived just as Verity was leaving, the two exchanging a brief, awkward greeting in the doorway of Robert's room.

"I can come back later," Lavinia said, seeing Henry's haggard expression.

"No, stay," he said, surprising himself. "Please."

Lavinia hesitated, then entered, taking the seat on the opposite side of the bed from Henry. She didn't offer platitudes or try to fill the silence with meaningless chatter. She simply sat, her calm presence somehow more comforting than all the well-meaning words he'd heard in the past days.

After a while, she spoke. "Have you eaten today?"

Henry couldn't remember. "I think Verity brought something."

Lavinia nodded, then reached into her bag and pulled out a wrapped sandwich. "Just in case."

He took it, oddly touched by the simple gesture. "Thanks."

They sat in silence again, the only sounds the rhythmic beeping of the machines and the hiss of the ventilator.

"Did you know," Lavinia said eventually, "that your father keeps a photo of you in his wallet? From your high school graduation."

Henry looked up, surprised. "How do you know that?"

"He showed me. The day before..." she gestured to the ventilator. "He was telling me about your Cambridge acceptance. How proud he was, even though he didn't want you to go."

Henry felt his throat tighten. "He said that? That he was proud?"

Lavinia nodded. "He said you have the kind of mind that could change the world. That he was selfish for wanting to keep you at Cleveland Enterprises."

Tears stung Henry's eyes. His father had never said these things to him.

"He'll tell you himself," Lavinia said softly, seeming to read his thoughts. "When he wakes up."

"If he wakes up," Henry corrected bitterly.

Lavinia's dark eyes met his. "When."

Her quiet certainty calmed something in him, and for the first time in days, Henry felt the faintest flicker of hope.

---

It was another week before Robert Cleveland opened his eyes. Henry was dozing in the chair when a weak voice called his name.

"Dad?" he said, jolting awake.

His father's eyes were open, clear and alert. The ventilator had been removed the day before when his breathing had stabilized.

"Henry," Robert said again, his voice raspy. "How long?"

"Eight days," Henry answered, moving closer to the bed. "You scared the hell out of me."

Robert managed a weak smile. "Language."

Henry laughed, a sound of pure relief. "I think I'm allowed to swear when my father nearly dies. Twice."

Robert's smile faded. "Cambridge," he said. "You need to write them. Defer your acceptance."

Henry felt the familiar tension return. "Dad, we don't need to talk about this now."

"Yes, we do." Robert's voice was weak but determined. "The company needs you, Henry. I need you. At least until I'm back on my feet."

Henry wanted to argue, to remind his father of all the conversations they'd had, all the times Robert had finally agreed to let him pursue his own path. But looking at his father's pale face, the tubes and monitors surrounding him, he couldn't form the words.

"Okay," he said instead. "Just until you're better."

Robert nodded, clearly exhausted by even this brief conversation. He closed his eyes, and within moments, his breathing had evened out into sleep.

Henry sat back in his chair, a heavy weight settling in his chest. He knew, with a certainty that felt like grief, that he would not be going to Cambridge in the fall. Perhaps not the next year either, or the one after that. His father's health was too precarious, the company too dependent on the Cleveland name.

His dreams of laboratories and research and scientific breakthroughs seemed to fade like morning mist, replaced by the solid, inescapable reality of board meetings and quarterly reports.

He didn't tell Verity that night. Instead, he let her believe that everything was still on track-that his father's awakening meant their plans could proceed as before. He couldn't bear to see the relief in her eyes when he eventually told her the truth.

---

Two months passed. Robert Cleveland was discharged from the hospital again, this time with an even stricter regimen of care. Henry took a leave of absence from university to work full-time at Cleveland Enterprises, stepping into the role of acting CEO while his father recovered.

Verity was thrilled. "You're a natural at this," she told him, after attending a company function as his date. "Everyone respects you already."

Henry smiled tightly. "It's the Cleveland name they respect."

"No," Verity insisted. "It's you. The way you handle yourself, the way you speak. You were born for this, Henry."

The words should have been a compliment, but they felt like chains.

Their relationship began to strain under the weight of Henry's resentment and Verity's inability-or unwillingness-to understand it. They argued more frequently, usually about the same things: his work hours, his mood, his reluctance to embrace the future Verity saw so clearly for them both.

"I don't understand why you're fighting this," she said one night, after a particularly heated exchange. "You have everything most people dream of-a successful company, respect, influence. Why isn't that enough?"

"Because it's not what I wanted," Henry said, his voice tired. "It never was."

Verity shook her head, frustration evident in her eyes. "Dreams change, Henry. People change. Why can't you see that this is where you're meant to be?"

Henry had no answer for her. Not one she would understand.

It was during this tumultuous time that Lavinia became an unexpected source of stability. She continued to visit Robert regularly, helping him stay connected to the company even as he recovered at home. But more tha

It was another week before Robert Wynthorne opened his eyes. Henry was dozing in the chair when a weak voice called his name.

“Dad?” he said, jolting awake.

His father’s eyes were open, clear and alert. The ventilator had been removed the day before when his breathing had stabilized.

“Henry,” Robert said again, his voice raspy. “How long?”

“Eight days,” Henry answered, moving closer to the bed. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Robert managed a weak smile. “Language.”

Henry laughed, a sound of pure relief. “I think I’m allowed to swear when my father nearly dies. Twice.”

Robert’s smile faded. “Cambridge,” he said. “You need to write them. Defer your acceptance.”

Henry felt the familiar tension return. “Dad, we don’t need to talk about this now.”

“Yes, we do.” Robert’s voice was weak but determined. “The company needs you, Henry. I need you. At least until I’m back on my feet.”

Henry wanted to argue, to remind his father of all the conversations they’d had, all the times Robert had finally agHartwell to let him pursue his own path. But looking at his father’s pale face, the tubes and monitors surrounding him, he couldn’t form the words.

“Okay,” he said instead. “Just until you’re better.”

Robert nodded, clearly exhausted by even this brief conversation. He closed his eyes, and within moments, his breathing had evened out into sleep.

Henry sat back in his chair, a heavy weight settling in his chest. He knew, with a certainty that felt like grief, that he would not be going to Cambridge in the fall. Perhaps not the next year either, or the one after that. His father’s health was too precarious, the company too dependent on the Wynthorne name.

His dreams of laboratories and research and scientific breakthroughs seemed to fade like morning mist, replaced by the solid, inescapable reality of board meetings and quarterly reports.

He didn’t tell Verity that night. Instead, he let her believe that everything was still on track—that his father’s awakening meant their plans could proceed as before. He couldn’t bear to see the relief in her eyes when he eventually told her the truth.

Delete

Two months passed. Robert Wynthorne was discharged from the hospital again, this time with an even stricter regimen of care. Henry took a leave of absence from university to work full-time at Wynthorne Enterprises, stepping into the role of acting CEO while his father recovered.

Verity was thrilled. “You’re a natural at this,” she told him, after attending a company function as his date. “Everyone respects you already.”

Henry smiled tightly. “It’s the Wynthorne name they respect.”

“No,” Verity insisted. “It’s you. The way you handle yourself, the way you speak. You were born for this, Henry.”

The words should have been a compliment, but they felt like chains.

Their relationship began to strain under the weight of Henry’s resentment and Verity’s inability—or unwillingness—to understand it. They argued more frequently, usually about the same things: his work hours, his mood, his reluctance to embrace the future Verity saw so clearly for them both.

“I don’t understand why you’re fighting this,” she said one night, after a particularly heated exchange. “You have everything most people dream of—a successful company, respect, influence. Why isn’t that enough?”

“Because it’s not what I wanted,” Henry said, his voice tired. “It never was.”

Verity shook her head, frustration evident in her eyes. “Dreams change, Henry. People change. Why can’t you see that this is where you’re meant to be?”

Henry had no answer for her. Not one she would understand.

It was during this tumultuous time that Lavinia became an unexpected source of stability. She continued to visit Robert regularly, helping him stay connected to the company even as he recovered at home. But more than that, she seemed to understand Henry’s conflict in a way Verity couldn’t—or wouldn’t.

“Have you thought about finding a compromise?” she asked one evening, as they sat in his father’s study going over some company documents. Robert was asleep upstairs, and Verity had left early, claiming a headache after another tense dinner.

“What kind of compromise?” Henry asked.

Lavinia shrugged, her dark ponytail sliding over her shoulder. “Wynthorne Enterprises has a research division, doesn’t it? Why not expand it? Create a biochemistry department. You could oversee the company as your father wants, but still have a hand in the science you love.”

Henry stared at her, wondering why he hadn’t thought of this himself. “That’s… actually not a bad idea.”

Lavinia smiled, that small, understated curve of her lips. “I have them occasionally.”

For the first time in months, Henry felt a flicker of genuine enthusiasm. He spent the next week developing a proposal for a new research division, one that would position Wynthorne Enterprises at the forefront of biochemical innovation.

His father, surprisingly, was supportive. “It’s a smart business move,” he said, reviewing the proposal from his armchair. “Diversification. New revenue streams. And if it keeps you engaged with the company…” He shrugged. “I should have thought of it myself.”

Verity, however, was less enthusiastic. “It seems like a distraction,” she said when Henry shared the idea. “The company needs focused leadership right now, not new ventures.”

“It’s not a distraction,” Henry argued. “It’s a strategic expansion into a growing field.”

Verity sighed. “If you say so. I just don’t want to see you stretched too thin.”

Her lack of support stung, but Henry pushed forward anyway. For the first time since his father’s second collapse, he felt like he might find a path that honored both his obligations and his passions.

He didn’t notice, then, how often his gaze sought out Lavinia during meetings, how he found himself calling her for advice on the research division, how her quiet approval meant more to him than it should.

Delete

The end came suddenly, though in retrospect, Henry should have seen it coming. They were approaching their year-and-a-half anniversary, and he had planned a special dinner, hoping to mend the growing rift between them.

Verity arrived at the restaurant looking beautiful as always, but with a determination in her eyes that made Henry uneasy.

“I’ve been offered a job,” she said, before they had even ordered. “In Paris. With Dior.”

Henry blinked, surprised. “Paris? That’s… wow. Congratulations.”

“I’m taking it,” she continued. “I leave in two weeks.”

Henry felt as if the ground had shifted beneath him. “Two weeks? Verity, that’s so soon. We haven’t even discussed—”

“What is there to discuss?” she interrupted. “You’ve made your choice, Henry. Wynthorne Enterprises. Your father. This life.” She gestured around them, at the expensive restaurant, the other diners in their fine clothes. “And it’s a good life. A comfortable one. But it’s not for me.”

“I thought—” Henry stopped, reorganizing his thoughts. “I thought we were building something together.”

Verity’s expression softened. “I thought so too. But you’ve changed, Henry. Or maybe you haven’t changed enough.” She reached for his hand. “You’re going to be a wonderful CEO. The company will thrive under your leadership. But I can’t wait around for you to figure out if that’s really what you want.”

“So that’s it?” Henry asked, a dull ache spreading through his chest. “A year and a half, and you’re just… done?”

“I’m not done,” Verity said, squeezing his hand. “I’m just choosing my path, the same way you chose yours.” She withdrew her hand gently. “Don’t wait for me, Henry. And I won’t wait for you.”

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur. They spoke of logistics, of memories, of the things they’d miss about each other. But beneath it all, Henry felt a growing numbness, as if something vital had been cut away.

He drove Verity home afterward, and their goodbye was painfully civil—a brief kiss, a promise to keep in touch, an exchange of well-wishes for the future.

It wasn’t until he was alone in his car, staring at the dark road ahead, that the full weight of it hit him. Verity was gone. The one constant in his chaotic life, the one bright spot in all the darkness of the past year and a half—gone.

And despite her words, despite her insistence that he shouldn’t wait, Henry knew with a bone-deep certainty that he would. That if—when—he made Wynthorne Enterprises the success his father dreamed of, Verity would see what he had accomplished. She would come back.

All he had to do was become the man she thought he should be.

Delete

The night Verity left for Paris, Henry found himself alone in his father’s study, a bottle of whiskey his only companion. The first drink burned his throat. The second was easier. By the third, the sharp edges of his pain had begun to dull.

He didn’t hear the front door open, didn’t notice the quiet footsteps approaching until Lavinia appeared in the doorway, concern etched on her face.

“Your father called me,” she said by way of explanation. “He was worried.”

Henry laughed bitterly. “About what? That I’d drink myself to death? Maybe that would be easier for everyone.”

Lavinia didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she crossed the room and gently removed the glass from his hand. “Have you eaten anything today?”

Henry shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” she said simply. She disappeared into the kitchen and returned minutes later with a sandwich and a glass of water. “Eat. Then you can go back to feeling sorry for yourself.”

Her directness startled him into compliance. He ate the sandwich mechanically, not tasting it.

“She’s gone,” he said finally, his voice hollow. “She left for Paris tonight.”

Lavinia nodded. “I know. She called me from the airport.”

Of course she had. They were still best friends, after all.

“Did she say anything about me?” Henry asked, hating the desperation in his voice.

Lavinia hesitated. “She said she hopes you find what you’re looking for.”

It wasn’t the answer he wanted. He reached for the whiskey bottle again, but Lavinia moved it out of reach.

“Enough,” she said firmly. “This isn’t helping anyone, least of all you.”

“What would you know about it?” Henry snapped. “Perfect Lavinia Parker, who never makes mistakes, never loses control.”

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Lavinia’s expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes shuttered, as if she had drawn a curtain across her emotions.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” she interrupted, her voice neutral. “You’re hurting. I understand.”

But Henry had a sinking feeling that he had wounded her more deeply than she was letting on. It was another failure to add to the growing list: failure to save his father, failure to pursue his dreams, failure to keep Verity, and now, failure to treat with kindness one of the few people who had stood by him through all of it.

“I’ll stay until you’re sober enough for bed,” Lavinia said, taking a seat in the armchair across from him. “Your father is worried enough without adding drunk driving to his concerns.”

Henry nodded, not trusting himself to speak again. They sat in silence, the ticking of the antique clock on the mantel the only sound.

Eventually, Lavinia picked up a book from the side table and began to read, seemingly content to wait out his intoxication without further conversation. The sight of her there, calm and steady amidst the chaos of his life, stirred something in Henry—a faint sense of gratitude, perhaps, or simply the recognition that not everyone had abandoned him.

He found himself watching her as she read, noting the way the lamplight caught in her dark hair, the serious set of her mouth, the graceful line of her neck as she bent over the book. She was nothing like Verity—no flash, no dazzle, no golden radiance that drew all eyes. But there was something compelling about her stillness, her self-containment, the sense that she knew exactly who she was and needed no one’s approval.

As the alcohol fog began to clear from his mind, Henry realized with a jolt that he had been staring at Lavinia for nearly an hour. She had noticed—he could tell by the faint color in her cheeks—but had said nothing, allowing him this small indiscretion in his grief.

“I think I’m sober enough to make it upstairs now,” he said, breaking the silence.

Lavinia closed her book and nodded. “Good. Get some sleep, Henry. Things will look better in the morning.”

They both knew it was a lie, but Henry appreciated the sentiment nonetheless.

As she gathered her things to leave, he found himself reluctant to see her go. “Lavinia,” he said, as she reached the door. “Thank you. For… everything.”

She paused, turning back to look at him with those serious dark eyes. “You would do the same for me.”

Would he? Henry wasn’t so sure. He had been so wrapped up in Verity, in his father, in his own problems, that he had barely noticed Lavinia’s quiet presence these past months. Had barely acknowledged the countless small ways she had helped him, supported him, without asking for anything in return.

“Still,” he said. “Thank you.”

Lavinia’s lips curved in that small, understated smile. “Goodnight, Henry.”

After she left, the house felt emptier than before. Henry made his way upstairs to his bedroom, his mind a jumble of grief over Verity, worry about his father, and an unexpected new awareness of Lavinia Parker.

He fell asleep with the strange feeling that something significant had shifted in his life, though he couldn’t quite identify what it was.

Delete