The unopened letter from the prison sat untouched on Paul's desk for three days.
Sandra noticed the way his gaze lingered on it every time he entered the study—how his fingers twitched toward it before he deliberately turned away, busying himself with estate ledgers or correspondence. He was a man who had faced down threats, sabotage, and his own father's cruelty without flinching, yet this single envelope seemed to unnerve him in a way nothing else had.
On the fourth morning, as frost laced the windows and Alexander babbled happily in his high chair, smearing porridge across his face, Sandra finally broke the silence.
"You should read it."
Paul's hand stilled around his coffee cup. He didn't pretend to misunderstand. "I know."
Alexander squealed, banging his spoon against the tray, oblivious to the tension. Sandra wiped his chin with a cloth before meeting Paul's eyes again. "Whatever it says, it doesn't change anything. Not him. Not us."
Paul exhaled, his shoulders tight. "It's not the words I'm afraid of," he admitted, voice low. "It's the fact that he wrote it at all."
That, Sandra understood. Reginald Barton had never done anything without calculation. Even from prison, even stripped of power, his shadow lingered. A letter was not just a letter—it was a move in a game they had thought finished.
She reached across the table, covering Paul's hand with hers. "Then we face it together. Like we always do."
---
The study fire crackled as Paul finally took the letter from the drawer. The parchment was thick, the wax seal still intact, the warden's official stamp pressed into it. He turned it over once, then broke the seal with a sharp motion.
Sandra sat across from him, watching as his eyes scanned the lines. His expression gave nothing away—not at first. Then, slowly, a furrow deepened between his brows.
"Well?" she asked when the silence stretched too long.
Paul's jaw tightened. "He's dying."
The words landed like a stone in still water.
Sandra blinked. "What?"
"Consumption. The warden says it's advanced. He's not expected to last the month." Paul's voice was flat, detached, as if reporting on a tenant's crop yield rather than his father's impending death. "He's requested to see me. Once. Before the end."
The fire popped, sending a spark skittering across the hearth. Sandra stared at Paul, waiting for the anger, the bitterness, the *something*—but his face remained eerily still.
"Do you want to go?" she asked carefully.
Paul's fingers tightened around the letter. "No." A pause. Then, quieter: "But I think I have to."
Sandra didn't argue. She knew, better than anyone, that some ghosts couldn't be laid to rest with distance. Some wounds had to be faced head-on before they could truly heal.
She stood, rounding the desk to stand beside him. "Then we'll go."
Paul looked up at her, his grey eyes searching hers. "You don't have to—"
"I know," she interrupted. "But I'm going anyway."
Alexander chose that moment to bang his fists against the high chair, giggling at the noise he'd made. The sound was so incongruous with the weight in the room that Paul actually laughed—a rough, startled exhale. He reached out, brushing a thumb over their son's sticky cheek.
"Not him, though," he murmured. "He doesn't step foot in that place."
"Never," Sandra agreed.
---
The prison smelled of damp stone and despair.
Sandra kept close to Paul's side as they were led through the corridors, her hand a steady presence at the small of his back. The warden—a different man than the one they'd met months before—spoke in hushed tones as they walked.
"He's weak, my lord. But his mind is… sharp. As ever." A careful glance at Paul. "You should prepare yourself."
Paul said nothing.
Reginald's cell was larger than the others, a concession to his former station, but it was still a cell—cold, barren, reeking of illness. The man himself sat propped on a narrow cot, wrapped in a threadbare blanket. The once-powerful industrialist was a husk of himself, his skin sallow, his frame gaunt. But his eyes, when they lifted to meet Paul's, were the same.
"Ah," Reginald rasped. "The prodigal son returns."
Paul didn't move from the doorway. "You wanted to see me."
Reginald coughed, a wet, rattling sound. "I wanted to see if you'd come." A thin smile. "Sentiment. My one weakness, it seems."
Sandra felt Paul tense beside her. "If this is a game—"
"No games," Reginald interrupted. "Not anymore." He shifted painfully, his breath labored. "I have a proposition for you."
Paul's laugh was harsh. "Of course you do."
Reginald ignored him, reaching beneath his pillow with trembling hands. He withdrew a small, folded parchment—yellowed with age, its edges frayed. "The deeds to the northern mines," he said. "The ones you could never gain full control of. They're yours."
Paul didn't take it. "Why?"
"Because I'm dying," Reginald snapped, then coughed again, his body shuddering with the effort. When he recovered, his voice was weaker. "And because, for once in my miserable life, I'd like to *win*."
Sandra frowned. "Win what?"
Reginald's gaze slid to her, something almost like respect in his hollowed-out face. "The future, Mrs. Barton. The legacy." He turned back to Paul. "You took Blackwood from me. You took my name, my empire, my *freedom*. But you won't take my death. This—" He thrust the deeds forward. "This is mine to give. Not yours to seize."
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Sandra watched Paul's face, seeing the war raging behind his eyes—the hatred, the grudging understanding, the reluctant pity.
Finally, Paul stepped forward. He took the deeds without a word, tucking them into his coat.
Reginald sagged back against the cot, his breath wheezing. "Good," he muttered. "Now get out."
Paul turned on his heel and left.
Sandra hesitated, looking at the broken man on the bed. She had no words for him—no forgiveness, no condemnation. But as she turned to follow Paul, Reginald spoke one last time.
"That boy of yours." A pause. "Does he laugh?"
Sandra stilled. Then, quietly: "All the time."
Reginald closed his eyes. "Hmph."
She left him there, coughing in the dark.
---
Outside, the winter air was a shock after the prison's stale gloom. Paul stood at the carriage, staring at the deeds in his hands, his expression unreadable.
Sandra didn't ask if he was all right. She simply slipped her hand into his, threading their fingers together.
After a long moment, Paul let out a slow breath. The tension in his shoulders eased, just slightly.
"Let's go home," he said.
And they did.