"Use everything your father taught you at the escort agency—train him well, and you'll have earned the eternal gratitude of the Governor's Residence."
That year, Barnaby was ten years old.
He tucked his cricket cage deeper into his sleeve and tilted his head to study me, eyes bright as stars.
Something in my heart—so long strangled by the hatred of my family's massacre—loosened, just a little.
He reached for my hand first.
And held it for seventeen years.
I'd made a habit of finding excuses for him.
He hadn't proposed because he was too busy.
He fooled around because he hadn't matured yet.
But day after day, year after year—from youth into middle age—the excuses wore thin.
I was done lying to myself.
Done enduring.
I stepped forward and dragged the woman off him.
Two slaps. Sharp and clean.
"Who the hell do you think you are?"
"Spreading your legs for him right in front of me?"
She shrieked and scrambled behind Barnaby.
"Commander! She hit me—"
I let out a cold laugh. "That wasn't hitting."
I drew the leather whip from my belt.
Raised it high.
My gaze caught the character Gilbert tooled into the handle.
My grip faltered.
This whip—Barnaby had given it to me five years ago. A birthday gift.
He'd hunted the beast himself, cured the hide, braided the core.
He'd even lined the handle with soft felt.
So you won't hurt yourself when you're disciplining me, he'd said with that grin.
The Barnaby of those days—even when my palm cracked across his face, he never flinched. Just smiled that infuriating smile and asked if my hand was sore.
Not like now.
The whip hadn't even fallen before his fingers locked around it.
"Rose."
A smile still played on his lips, but his eyes had gone cold.
"She's young. Doesn't know any better. Let it go."
The whip stretched taut between us.
Like everything we'd been.
Suddenly, I felt the absurdity of it all.
I let go.
Barnaby tossed the whip aside and pulled the woman into his arms, murmuring soft reassurances.
"There, there. Don't be scared."
"I'm here. No one touches you."
I watched him pull a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dab the tears from her cheeks.
Watched him drop it on the floor.
One corner of the silk bore a crooked embroidered letter: H.
I recognized it. The handkerchief I'd used to stop his bleeding when he was eighteen, wounded after a bandit raid.
He'd been so weak then, pressing my hand with trembling fingers.
The blood will stain it... your handkerchief... I can't bear to ruin it...
He'd taken it so carefully. Tucked it beneath his pillow like something precious.
But now—he'd clearly forgotten every word he'd ever said.
What he once treasured, he could discard without a second thought.
My chest felt hollow. Wind whistling through the void.
"Barnaby."
My voice came out quiet.
He didn't look up.
I continued anyway. "If you really want her, bring her home."
"I'll make room."
That made him raise his head.
"Rose."
His tone darkened.
"Don't talk nonsense."
"It's not nonsense. I mean it." My voice stayed level. "Barnaby, I'm done waiting for a title that's never coming."
"And I'm done clinging to feelings that have gone sour."
"Let's set each other free."
His gaze turned glacial.
His voice carried a warning: "Rose Henson. Know when to stop."
I met his stare without flinching. "From this day forward, I'm leaving the Governor's Residence."
"Without me in your way, you can play however you like. Marry whoever you want."
He studied me for a long moment.
Then laughed.
"You think this little performance will frighten me?"
"You think I'm still the child you could bend to your will?"
