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E leanor had spent years burying this moment. Years convincing herself that it would never come to light—that the past could stay hidden, that no one, least of all Graham Sinclair, would ever know what she had done.

But now, he stood before her. And he was asking. No—demanding.

Not with force, not with anger, but with that unshakable steadiness he had always possessed. The kind that made her feel like no storm, no scandal, no secret could ever frighten him.

She wanted to believe that. But this ? This would ruin everything.

Her throat was dry. Her hands trembled at her sides. But she had to speak. Because if she did not tell him now, she would never be free of it.

So she whispered, “I almost killed Lord Redgrave.”

The words hung in the air like a blade, sharp and gleaming, suspended between them. Graham did not move. Did not speak. His expression did not shift—not in shock, not in horror. Only his eyes darkened, watching her carefully, waiting for more.

So she gave it to him. The whole truth.

“He pursued me,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “At first, it was innocent—flowers, letters, a presence at every event. I told him I was not interested. He did not listen.” She swallowed hard, the memory slamming into her like a wave. “One evening, at a garden party, he cornered me.”

Graham’s body tensed, his jaw locking.

Eleanor forced herself to continue. “He—he did not touch me. Not quite. But he made it clear that he intended to. He told me that my refusals were meaningless. That sooner or later, I would belong to him.”

She curled her hands into fists. “I told my brother. He was furious. He wanted to challenge Redgrave, but my father—” She shook her head. “My father refused. He said Redgrave was powerful, connected. That we could not afford a scandal.”

Graham muttered a curse under his breath. “And you were just supposed to accept that?”

Eleanor lifted her chin. “I did not accept it.”

Silence.

Then, softly, Graham asked, “What did you do?”

She turned toward the window, staring out at the lake. The very place where everything had changed. “I arranged to meet him. Alone. One last time.”

A sharp inhale behind her.

“I told him I would never marry him. That if he had any honor, he would leave me be.” She swallowed, hands trembling.

“He laughed.” She closed her eyes. “He told me he had already spoken to my father. That a marriage agreement had been signed. That it was only a matter of time before I was his.” A shiver raked through her.

Graham remained silent. But the air around him was charged, furious. She could feel it—his rage building, quiet but lethal.

“I knew then that I had only one chance,” she whispered. “He was standing near the edge of the lake. His back was to the water.”

He released a breath.

“I pushed him.”

Graham’s breath hitched.

Eleanor’s fingers gripped the window ledge. “He hit his head on the rocks. He nearly drowned.” It was difficult, but she forced herself to turn, to face Graham fully. “If the groundskeeper had not found him… he would have died.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Graham stared at her, his dark eyes unreadable.

He sighed. “Good.”

Eleanor’s breath caught. She had expected shock. Horror. Condemnation. Not this. Not the unwavering certainty in his voice. Not the fierce, unapologetic protectiveness in his gaze.

“Graham,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “I could have killed him.”

He took a slow step toward her. “And if you had?”

She swallowed. “Then I would have been ruined. My family—”

“Your family should have protected you.” His voice was low, dangerous. “Your father should have called him out. James should have—”

“James wanted to,” she interrupted. “But after it happened, we were forced to stay silent.” Her fingers twisted in her skirts.

“Redgrave survived. But he never spoke of what happened. I think—I think he was ashamed. A man of his reputation nearly drowned because of a woman? He left England shortly after. No one ever spoke of it again.”

She let out a shaking breath. “But I did,” she whispered. “I carried it. I still carry it.”

Graham was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached out his hand. Slowly. Carefully. And when he touched hers, her entire body trembled.

“You did what you had to do.” His voice was quiet. Steady.

Eleanor looked up at him, stunned. She had prepared for him to turn away. To look at her differently. But he didn’t. He stepped closer.

His fingers curled gently around hers, grounding her, holding her. “You are not ruined,” he said. “You are not a villain in this.” His grip tightened. “You are a woman who fought for her own freedom. And I will never— never —see you as anything less.”

A sharp gasp escaped her lips. The world tilted, the weight of years of silence suddenly crashing down on her. She had spent so long believing she had to carry this alone. And now, for the first time, she wasn’t.

A sob tore from her throat before she could stop it.

Graham caught her before she fell. His arms came around her, strong and steady, holding her as if he had been waiting five years to do so.

She buried her face in his chest, the fabric of his coat dampening as she let herself fall into him. For once, she did not fight it. For once, she let herself be held. And for the first time in years, she did not feel alone.

She had spent so long believing she was ruined that no one—not even the boy she had once loved—could see her as anything but the woman who had nearly killed a man.

But here he was. Holding her as if she were whole.

The fire crackled in the library, casting flickering light against the towering shelves, but Eleanor hardly noticed. She only noticed him.

She was still in his arms, her cheek pressed against the firm warmth of his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was a sound she had missed, though she hadn’t realized it until now.

Slowly, she pulled back, lifting her face to look at him. His dark eyes met hers, unwavering, filled with something so intense, so devastatingly real, that it made her breath catch.

He reached up, brushing his fingers against her cheek, tracing the path of the tear she had not even realized had fallen.

“Eleanor,” he murmured.

The way he said her name—as if it belonged to him—sent a shiver down her spine. She had spent so long fighting this. Denying him. Denying herself. But she was tired of pretending.

She reached up, fingers trembling slightly, and placed her hand over his. Graham inhaled, his thumb stroking her skin as if memorizing it. “I don’t deserve this,” she whispered.

His jaw tensed. “Don’t say that.”

She swallowed. “Graham—”

“You are everything, Eleanor.” His voice was rough, almost broken, as if the words had been locked inside him for years. “Everything I wanted. Everything I lost.” He rested his forehead against hers for a moment. “And I am never losing you again.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. God help her, she wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe in happily-ever-after.

She let out a shaky breath, tilting her face ever so slightly. Their noses brushed, and she felt the warm, steady pull of him, the weight of years lost and found. This time, she did not hesitate. She closed the distance.

Their lips met in a kiss that was not hesitant or uncertain—but deep, consuming, desperate. A kiss that spoke of time stolen and love reclaimed.

Graham’s arms tightened around her, pulling her flush against him, and Eleanor melted into him completely. There was no space left between them, no past, no fear—only his hands threading into her hair, his lips parting against hers, the quiet sound of her own breath hitching as she clung to him.

She felt alive. So… whole .

When they finally broke apart, she was breathless. Graham’s grip was still firm, as if he would not let her go.

“I love you,” he said.

The words stole the air from her lungs. She had spent so long convincing herself she could live without him. But now, standing in the circle of his arms, she knew—she had only been surviving.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, and for the first time in years, she let it win. “I love you too.”

Graham’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment—as if he had waited a lifetime to hear those words.

And perhaps he had. Perhaps he felt the same elation she was experiencing.

He kissed her again, softer this time, lingering as if he never wanted to leave the moment. And Eleanor, for the first time in five years, let herself believe in happiness. She let herself believe in him.

But happiness is a fragile thing. And what if, just outside the quiet safety of the library, darkness waited?

After all… that had been the story of her life since Graham had left five years ago.