Rosemary Severon opened her eyes to a dimly lit room, her body weak, feverish, and aching. The weight of exhaustion pressed heavily upon her, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if she had been cast into hell to atone for her betrayal.

She lay motionless on a crude wooden bed, little more than planks set upon bricks, her mind drifting through the fragments of her life.

Once, she had been the cherished daughter of a noble family, a girl who had dreamed of love and poetry. Her first love had been a scholar, a man of words who had gone away to university while she remained behind. Then, tragedy struck. Her father, her last protector, passed away, leaving her orphaned and vulnerable.

Her cousin, who arrived to claim the family estate, brought with him a gentleman—Graham Severan. A businessman. Not of the gentry, not the fairytale nobleman she had once imagined for herself, but a man of means. A man who could offer her shelter when she had none. And so, she married him.

She bore him a son, fulfilled her duty as a wife, and yet… her heart remained cold. Graham was a man of few words, a presence rather than a partner. He did not woo her with love letters or poetry, and day by day, an invisible wall formed between them.

Then, her first love returned.

With letters filled with longing, he spoke of how he had worried for her after learning of her father’s death. The words were intoxicating, a sweet melody in contrast to the silence of her marriage. Slowly, through the ink of their letters, the past rekindled.

The yearning was unbearable. Love, she told herself, was worth any sacrifice.

She pleaded with Graham for a divorce.

Of course, he refused. Divorce was a scandal, a stain upon a woman's reputation that could never be washed away. But Rosemary did not care. Ignoring the whispers of society, she abandoned her husband and child, fleeing to the city in pursuit of her heart’s desire.

Only to find her lover standing at the altar, marrying the daughter of a wealthy merchant.

She had not even been a temptation to him—merely a passing fancy, safe to indulge in because she had been another man’s wife. He had never intended to make her his own.

Stricken, humiliated, and alone, Rosemary barely made it back to the wretched little room she had rented before her body gave out. A fever consumed her, leaving her trapped between fitful dreams and cruel reality. She had eaten nothing for a day and a night. Her limbs were frail, her strength nearly spent.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

Regret settled in her chest like a stone. Not for her husband—she had never loved Graham. But for herself. For the child she had left behind.

If she survived, she swore, she would return to her son. She would be a mother to him, if nothing else.

She needed to call for help. Needed to find a way to save herself. But when she tried to rise, her legs gave out, and she tumbled from the bed to the cold wooden floor. The impact was muted—the bed was barely raised—but even so, it left her winded.

For a moment, she simply sat there, drawing ragged breaths.

The room was pitifully small, its air thick with dust and neglect. No proper window, just a warped wooden table and a sagging bed. She had taken this place because she had nowhere else to go. Ten pence a day, she had agreed with the old woman who owned it. A fair price for a place to wait for a love that would never return.

But now, waiting was no longer an option.

Outside, the growl of an engine cut through the stillness, followed by the scrape of tires against the dirt. Footsteps—heavy, deliberate—echoed in the courtyard.

Rosemary’s breath caught.

A deep voice rumbled outside, demanding, "Is there a woman from out of town renting here?"

She knew that voice. Even feverish, even weak, she could never mistake it.

Graham.

She tried to call out, but her throat was parched, her voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. She clutched at the bed frame, then the table, dragging herself to her feet inch by inch.

Outside, the old woman hesitated before mumbling, "A young lady… she came looking for someone."

"Where is she?" Graham’s voice was sharp, urgent.

The woman pointed to the small hut in the corner, eyes shifting nervously. "She should be there."

Rosemary took a step forward, nearly collapsing. Just a little more… if she could reach the door…

A heavy fist pounded against the wood. "Rosemary! It’s me!"

Come in, she willed him. Come in before it’s too late!

Silence stretched. Then, without warning—

A loud crack.

The door burst open under the force of a single kick, its hinges torn free. The old woman gasped, shrinking back in fear.

And there he was.

Framed in the doorway, Graham Severan stood with the sun at his back, broad-shouldered and imposing. The light slashed across his face, casting one half in brilliant gold, the other in deep shadow. His expression was unreadable—cold, contained—but his presence filled the tiny space entirely.

He exhaled slowly, his voice quiet but firm. "Rosemary."

She swayed where she stood, gripping the table to remain upright. The fever blurred her vision, but she still saw the tension in his jaw, the storm brewing beneath his otherwise controlled exterior.

His next words cut through the silence like steel.

"I’ll give you one last chance."

He took a step forward, his voice low and unwavering.

"Get a divorce… or come home with me."

Rosemary's heart pounded. She had expected anger, maybe even hatred. But instead, standing before her was the man she had abandoned, offering her a choice.

And this time, she know what to do.