The air outside the Jarjayes mansion was heavy with dusk.

The carriage waited at the foot of the grand staircase, its polished frame gleaming under the last light of day. Inside, the noble reclined with a satisfied smile—one that spoke of victory, of possession, of having bent fate to his will.

You stood before the carriage, your bag already loaded, your hands clenched at your sides. You hadn’t said goodbye. Not to her. Not because you didn’t want to—but because you had to leave before she knew. Because if she knew, she would fight. And if she fought, she would suffer.

André had told her.

You heard the doors slam open.

Oscar appeared at the top of the stairs, breathless, her boots echoing against the marble as she descended with urgency. Her uniform was still on, her hair slightly disheveled, her eyes wide with disbelief.

"You’re leaving?" she asked, voice sharp, cracking.

You turned to face her.

She stopped halfway down, as if the truth had struck her mid-step. Her gaze searched yours, demanding an answer, demanding a reason that made sense.

You couldn’t give her one.

Not the real one.

Not the threat whispered behind closed doors. Not the ultimatum that had cornered you. Not the promise that if you stayed, she would pay the price.

Oscar stepped closer, her voice lower now.

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

You swallowed hard.

The noble inside the carriage tapped the window, impatient. His smile hadn’t faded.

Oscar’s eyes flicked toward him, then back to you. Fury. Hurt. Confusion. All tangled in silence.

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

She took another step.

"Say something."

But you couldn’t.

Because if you did, she would follow. And if she followed, they would destroy her.

So you looked at her. Just looked. As if memorizing her face. As if carving it into your soul.

And then the footman opened the carriage door.

The moment hung in the air, trembling.

Oscar didn’t move.

Neither did you.

Not yet.