enjoyebooks CHAPTER 136
CHAPTER 136
POV: Adrian
I know the moment I decide, even though nothing dramatic happens. No trumpet. No argument. No clean ending.
It happens in the kitchens.
I shouldn’t be there. I’m only passing through because Father asked me to deliver a message to the steward, but I hear Mark’s voice first—too soft to be a performance, too honest to be careless.
“I don’t want to make things harder for you,” he’s saying.
I stop without meaning to.
Lysa answers, her tone warm but uncertain. “You’re not. You’re just… intense.”
“I know,” Mark says with a short laugh. “I’m working on it.”
There’s a pause. I imagine her shifting her weight, tucking her braid behind her ear. I’ve learned her movements without trying.
“You don’t have to be perfect,” she says.
I feel the words like a blow.
Mark exhales. “That’s good. Because I’m not.”
I should leave. Instead, I stay.
“I just want to be honest with you,” he continues. “About what I feel.”
Lysa is quiet for a beat. Then, gently, “And your brother?”
The question lands exactly where it should.
Mark doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is steady. “I love him. But this—” He hesitates. “This matters to me too.”
Silence stretches.
“I don’t want to hurt him,” he adds.
I step back then, heart pounding. I don’t hear her answer. I don’t need to.
I already know.
Later, Mark finds me in the east gallery. He doesn’t pretend he wasn’t looking for me.
“She talked to you,” he says.
“No,” I reply. “She didn’t.”
He studies my face. “You heard.”
“Yes,” I admit.
He grimaces. “I didn’t plan that.”
“I know,” I say.
We stand there, the space between us heavy but no longer hostile.
“She didn’t say anything definitive,” he adds quickly. “I swear.”
“I believe you,” I reply.
He exhales. “I don’t want this to ruin us.”
I look at him—really look at him. The boy who fights loudly because silence never protected him. The brother who learned to shout because whispering never worked.
“I don’t either,” I say.
He waits. I always do the explaining.
“You were right,” I continue. “About me stepping back. About me always doing it.”
He stiffens. “I didn’t mean—”
“No,” I say calmly. “You did. And you weren’t wrong.”
His eyes flicker. “Adrian—”
“I’m choosing to this time,” I say.
The words surprise even me.
“What?” he asks.
“I’m stepping back,” I repeat. “Not because I’m afraid. Not because I think I don’t deserve something.”
He stares at me. “Why, then?”
“Because love isn’t something you win by endurance,” I say. “And I don’t want her if it costs me you.”
The gallery is quiet except for our breathing.
“You don’t have to,” he says. “She might not even—”
“I know,” I interrupt gently. “This isn’t about her choosing. It’s about me choosing.”
He swallows. “You’re better than me.”
“No,” I say firmly. “I’m different.”
He looks away. “I don’t know how to accept this.”
“You don’t have to,” I reply. “Just don’t waste it.”
He nods slowly.
That evening, I find Lysa by the outer fountain.
She looks up when she hears me approach, surprise flashing across her face.
“Oh,” she says. “Hello.”
“Hello,” I reply.
She gestures to the water. “I like it here. It’s quieter.”
“Yes,” I say. “I can see why.”
We stand side by side, watching the ripples spread where a leaf has fallen.
“Mark told me you were upset,” she says cautiously.
“I was,” I answer honestly. “I’m not anymore.”
She studies me. “That’s… fast.”
I smile faintly. “I’ve had a lot of practice letting things go.”
Her brow furrows. “That sounds sad.”
“It was,” I admit. “It doesn’t have to be now.”
She waits.
“I wanted you to know,” I say, “that I won’t stand between you and him.”
Her breath catches. “Adrian—”
“This isn’t a test,” I add. “And it’s not a trick.”
“Why?” she asks softly.
“Because he loves loudly,” I say. “And you deserve that.”
She looks down at her hands. “And what do you deserve?”
The question is simple. It undoes me.
“I deserve honesty,” I answer. “From myself, if nothing else.”
She nods slowly. “You’re very kind.”
I shake my head. “I’m finally being brave.”
She reaches out, touching my arm briefly. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For trusting me with something that hurts,” she says.
I incline my head. “Take care of him.”
She smiles—sad, grateful. “I will.”
I tell Mother that night.
She listens without interrupting, her hand warm around mine.
“You’re sure?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say.
She squeezes my fingers. “That wasn’t easy.”
“No,” I reply. “But it was right.”
She studies me, eyes shining. “You remind me of someone I loved very much.”
“Who?” I ask.
“My brother,” she answers softly.
I don’t ask more.
Mark knocks on my door before sleep.
“I don’t know how to say this,” he begins.
“You don’t have to,” I say.
He steps inside anyway. “I won’t forget it.”
I nod. “Good.”
“And if you ever want something—anything—” he adds.
“I’ll ask,” I say.
He smiles, small and real. “I hope you do.”
When he leaves, I don’t feel hollow.
I feel… lighter.
Choosing love doesn’t always mean holding on.
Sometimes it means stepping aside without bitterness.
Sometimes it means trusting that what you give up doesn’t disappear—it becomes something else.
Stronger. Quieter. I don’t feel like I’m losing. I feel like I’m becoming.