Jason
He should've left sooner.Long before the silver invitations.Long before the orchestra was chosen and the lilies ordered.
Jason had always known Adele would marry—but not like this. Not to him. Not to Henry—the brother who'd never asked permission to take anything, especially what wasn't his.
The day the engagement was announced, Jason fled to the orchard behind the manor. The same place where Adele, years ago, had once asked him, "What makes a painting beautiful?"She was seventeen then. Sunlight had spilled through her hair, and her smile had caught him off guard. He'd stared too long.He should've told her then.He should've said, You.
But he hadn't.Not then.Not ever.
And now, it was too late.
Three Weeks Before the Wedding
He was sketching in the old stables, where the dust smelled like memory. Horses hadn't lived there in years, only ghosts and silence.
So when Henry's voice broke through the slats of sunlight and cobwebs, Jason tensed.
"I know what you're doing," Henry said, arms folded, watching him like one might study a flaw in the mirror. "You're sulking. Like a lovesick boy with a pencil."
Jason didn't look up. "I'm working."
Henry ignored it. "You're in love with her."Not a question. A sentence. A verdict.
Jason set his sketchpad down. "Call off the wedding."
Henry actually laughed. Short. Sharp. Cruel."And why would I do that?"
"Because she doesn't love you. And you don't love her. This is about control. Not care."
Henry stepped into the light. His expression shifted—cool amusement giving way to something darker. "This is about legacy. About keeping our name in marble, not charcoal. About reminding Father I'm the heir this family deserves."
Jason's jaw tightened. "You don't even see her."
"I see what she is. A Wesley girl with a noble name and empty coffers. A perfect political arrangement. She'll smile and bear it like they all do."
"And you'll lie beside someone you don't love, for the rest of your life?"
Henry's eyes glittered. "Better than living beneath the stairs, scribbling in shadows like a stray. Or did you forget you're not really one of us?"
Jason froze. The words cut like they always did.Not Father's son.Not really an Ashbourne.
"Go ahead," Henry added softly, stepping closer. "Tell her. Tell her how you feel. But when I destroy you publicly, she'll hate you for it. She'll think you used her. She'll never forgive you."
Jason stared at him. Silent.
"This is me being merciful," Henry whispered. "You leave quietly, or I rip your life apart. Your choice."
And in that moment, Jason knew—No matter how deep his love for Adele ran,He would never be allowed to keep her.
The Night He Left
He packed by candlelight. No fanfare. No noise. Just the scrape of drawers and the soft weight of memory.
A few shirts. A few coins.And the unfinished portrait of Adele—tucked carefully between sketchbooks.
The manor was asleep. Her door was closed. A strip of light glowed beneath it.He hesitated.He thought about knocking.He even reached for the doorknob.
But Henry's voice hissed again, venomous and sharp.If you ever tell her, I'll ruin you.
So Jason turned.And left.
No goodbye.No truth.Just silence.
The Years That Followed
He disappeared.To the sea. Then Paris. Then nowhere in particular.
He lived by commission, painting under another name. He wandered galleries, watched strangers fall in love with pieces they'd never understand. He learned how to be invisible.
But the ache remained.A shape her name left behind.
He once saw her portrait in a London exhibition.Lady Adele Ashbourne—regal, poised, untouchable.She looked older. Not in age, but in quiet sorrow.Like someone surviving behind glass.
He hated himself for leaving.But he knew why he had.
And he made himself a promise:
If the world ever shifted...If she ever reached back...If there was ever a chance to love her without breaking her life to do it...
He would return.