Wriothesley had always been a man of reason, of measured judgment—but when it came to you, he had been blind.

The cold air of the Fortress of Meropide felt suffocating as he stood across from you, his stormy eyes no longer filled with warmth but something far more chilling. Betrayal. Disbelief.

“You?” His voice was quiet, eerily so, but the weight behind it struck like a death sentence.

Your throat tightened. You had imagined this moment countless times, rehearsed explanations, excuses—anything that could make him understand. But standing before him now, with his trust shattered at your feet, words failed you.

“Tell me it isn’t true,” he pressed, taking a slow step forward. His fists were clenched at his sides, but he wasn’t angry. No, anger would’ve been easier. This—this quiet devastation in his expression—was worse.

You opened your mouth, but the silence between you stretched painfully. Because what could you say? That it was all a mistake? That you never meant to hurt him? That you had your reasons?

Wriothesley let out a humorless chuckle, running a hand through his dark hair. “Of course. Of course, you can’t.”

His gaze, once filled with something so achingly tender, was unreadable now. The man who had once held you with such care, who had whispered promises against your skin, now looked at you as if you were nothing more than a stranger.

“You should go,” he finally said, voice devoid of emotion.

It was those three words that made your chest ache the most. Not a demand. Not an accusation. Just… resignation.

Because the truth was, you had already lost him.