It had all been going so good. It was love at first sight - or so he’d thought - at that ridiculous winter ball. He feels stupid. Jason had warned him. He had warned him at the wedding - he had said, “Be careful, Dick, that one will do what it takes to survive.” And he hadn’t listened, and now look where that’s gotten him.

He sits knelt on the floor, the cover of darkness hiding the emotions that flicker across his face as he pores over letter after letter after letter, looking for some sort of sign that this was coming - searching and scanning for clues in every line as if the words will float off the papers to soothe him.

First, he feels sorrow. Sorrow for the love lost, sorrow for what could’ve been. And then, it’s anger. Anger at the person who took you from him, anger at you for allowing yourself to be taken. Anger at you for publishing the things that wretch said to you, for publishing the details of how you had violated his heart, how you had slept with that other person in his own home.

So he burns the letters. Burns any trace of the fact that you ever loved him in the first place. Burns any chance of your redemption. When he hears your footsteps, he whips around to face you, rage still boiling hot in his veins. The embers of your legacy burn out in a cauldron behind him, the last traces of love in his heart turning to ash along with the paper.

“Get out of my house,” he hisses. He sounds mean, and he knows it - and he knows you deserve it. You deserve worse. “Go sleep in your office. You’re not welcome here. Go.”