Caspian stood in his late father’s study at the Hawthorne Estate. The room was imposing, paneled in dark mahogany and lined with books that had not been opened in years. It smelled of leather and regret.
Eleanora stood by the door. “The corporate statement cleans the company’s hands,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “It does not clean yours. You owe Lyra an apology. A public one.”
She placed a single sheet of heavy, cream-colored stationery on the massive desk. Beside it, she set a black fountain pen. The gesture was deliberate, making the act tangible, difficult. Not a quick email or a ghost-written press release. An act of contrition.
She left him alone with the silence and the blank page.
He stared at it for what felt like an hour. How could he possibly articulate the depth of his wrongdoing in a few sentences?
His first draft was stilted, corporate. I sincerely regret the distress caused… He crumpled it.
The second was self-serving, a veiled attempt at justification. In light of the complex deception I was subjected to… He tore it in half.
Frustration burned in his chest. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to see it. Not the grand narrative, but the small, specific moments of his cruelty.
The coldness in his voice when he’d told her their marriage was over. His sneering disbelief when she’d tried to tell him about the baby, a memory that now felt like a physical blow. The way he had stood beside Isolde, a public shield for her lies, while Lyra faced the storm alone.
The memories were agonizingly clear. They were a litany of his sins.
He picked up the pen again. This time, he did not try for eloquence. He wrote from a place of raw, unvarnished shame. The words came quickly, brutally.
He took full responsibility. He offered no excuses. He detailed his failure not just as a husband, but as a human being. It was addressed to her, and only to her, though the world would read it.
Crucially, it did not ask for forgiveness. He had no right to ask for anything.
When Eleanora returned, he slid the paper across the desk. She read the short, direct text, her expression unreadable. After a long moment, she gave a single, quiet, approving nod.
“It is a beginning.”
About the Author
