Chapter 8
Miles asked to resign.
I refused.
Not because I wanted him near me.
Because resignation was too clean.
“You don’t choose the end of your consequence.”
He looked at me.
“What do you want?”
“The truth.”
“You have it.”
“No.”
I leaned back.
“I have the version that makes you weak but sympathetic.”
His jaw tightened.
Good.
“What did you do actively?”
Silence.
Then he told me.
He had changed two guard rotations at Camille’s request.
Nothing dangerous.
That was what he told himself.
He assigned newer men near the music wing because they questioned household orders less.
He gave Camille access to my private calendar.
He told her which evenings council would run late.
He recommended Ashford’s old security staff be rehired “for maintenance.”
There.
Preparation.
“You were building the road.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know Emma would be sent there?”
“Not at first.”
“When did you know?”
“Three weeks ago.”
My voice lowered.
“And you said nothing.”
“No.”
“Why?”
He touched his ring.
“I thought I could stop Camille privately.”
Cowardice dressed as discretion.
“What happened?”
“She told me the marriage was the only chance the Arden family would ever have again.”
“And that mattered?”
“Less than it used to.”
“Not enough.”
He nodded.
“No.”
Then I asked the hardest question.
“If Emma had not overheard tonight, would you have told me?”
Miles took a long time.
“I don’t know.”
Good.
Ugly.
True.
That answer saved him from becoming another man performing remorse for survival.
I stood.
“You lose my security.”
He closed his eyes.
Expected.
“No weapons near my household. No command. No access to my schedule.”
“Yes.”
“You do not see Emma unless she asks someday.”
His face tightened.
“Yes.”
Then:
“Am I out of the family?”
“You were never in it.”
That hurt.
Because after five years, maybe he had been.
Not by blood.
May you like
By trust.
And he had spent it.
