six

It was another week before Robert Wynthorne opened his eyes. Henry was dozing in the chair when a weak voice called his name.

“Dad?” he said, jolting awake.

His father’s eyes were open, clear and alert. The ventilator had been removed the day before when his breathing had stabilized.

“Henry,” Robert said again, his voice raspy. “How long?”

“Eight days,” Henry answered, moving closer to the bed. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Robert managed a weak smile. “Language.”

Henry laughed, a sound of pure relief. “I think I’m allowed to swear when my father nearly dies. Twice.”

Robert’s smile faded. “Cambridge,” he said. “You need to write them. Defer your acceptance.”

Henry felt the familiar tension return. “Dad, we don’t need to talk about this now.”

“Yes, we do.” Robert’s voice was weak but determined. “The company needs you, Henry. I need you. At least until I’m back on my feet.”

Henry wanted to argue, to remind his father of all the conversations they’d had, all the times Robert had finally agHartwell to let him pursue his own path. But looking at his father’s pale face, the tubes and monitors surrounding him, he couldn’t form the words.

“Okay,” he said instead. “Just until you’re better.”

Robert nodded, clearly exhausted by even this brief conversation. He closed his eyes, and within moments, his breathing had evened out into sleep.

Henry sat back in his chair, a heavy weight settling in his chest. He knew, with a certainty that felt like grief, that he would not be going to Cambridge in the fall. Perhaps not the next year either, or the one after that. His father’s health was too precarious, the company too dependent on the Wynthorne name.

His dreams of laboratories and research and scientific breakthroughs seemed to fade like morning mist, replaced by the solid, inescapable reality of board meetings and quarterly reports.

He didn’t tell Verity that night. Instead, he let her believe that everything was still on track—that his father’s awakening meant their plans could proceed as before. He couldn’t bear to see the relief in her eyes when he eventually told her the truth.

Two months passed. Robert Wynthorne was discharged from the hospital again, this time with an even stricter regimen of care. Henry took a leave of absence from university to work full-time at Wynthorne Enterprises, stepping into the role of acting CEO while his father recovered.

Verity was thrilled. “You’re a natural at this,” she told him, after attending a company function as his date. “Everyone respects you already.”

Henry smiled tightly. “It’s the Wynthorne name they respect.”

“No,” Verity insisted. “It’s you. The way you handle yourself, the way you speak. You were born for this, Henry.”

The words should have been a compliment, but they felt like chains.

Their relationship began to strain under the weight of Henry’s resentment and Verity’s inability—or unwillingness—to understand it. They argued more frequently, usually about the same things: his work hours, his mood, his reluctance to embrace the future Verity saw so clearly for them both.

“I don’t understand why you’re fighting this,” she said one night, after a particularly heated exchange. “You have everything most people dream of—a successful company, respect, influence. Why isn’t that enough?”

“Because it’s not what I wanted,” Henry said, his voice tired. “It never was.”

Verity shook her head, frustration evident in her eyes. “Dreams change, Henry. People change. Why can’t you see that this is where you’re meant to be?”

Henry had no answer for her. Not one she would understand.

It was during this tumultuous time that Lavinia became an unexpected source of stability. She continued to visit Robert regularly, helping him stay connected to the company even as he recovered at home. But more than that, she seemed to understand Henry’s conflict in a way Verity couldn’t—or wouldn’t.

“Have you thought about finding a compromise?” she asked one evening, as they sat in his father’s study going over some company documents. Robert was asleep upstairs, and Verity had left early, claiming a headache after another tense dinner.

“What kind of compromise?” Henry asked.

Lavinia shrugged, her dark ponytail sliding over her shoulder. “Wynthorne Enterprises has a research division, doesn’t it? Why not expand it? Create a biochemistry department. You could oversee the company as your father wants, but still have a hand in the science you love.”

Henry stared at her, wondering why he hadn’t thought of this himself. “That’s… actually not a bad idea.”

Lavinia smiled, that small, understated curve of her lips. “I have them occasionally.”

For the first time in months, Henry felt a flicker of genuine enthusiasm. He spent the next week developing a proposal for a new research division, one that would position Wynthorne Enterprises at the forefront of biochemical innovation.

His father, surprisingly, was supportive. “It’s a smart business move,” he said, reviewing the proposal from his armchair. “Diversification. New revenue streams. And if it keeps you engaged with the company…” He shrugged. “I should have thought of it myself.”

Verity, however, was less enthusiastic. “It seems like a distraction,” she said when Henry shared the idea. “The company needs focused leadership right now, not new ventures.”

“It’s not a distraction,” Henry argued. “It’s a strategic expansion into a growing field.”

Verity sighed. “If you say so. I just don’t want to see you stretched too thin.”

Her lack of support stung, but Henry pushed forward anyway. For the first time since his father’s second collapse, he felt like he might find a path that honored both his obligations and his passions.

He didn’t notice, then, how often his gaze sought out Lavinia during meetings, how he found himself calling her for advice on the research division, how her quiet approval meant more to him than it should.

The end came suddenly, though in retrospect, Henry should have seen it coming. They were approaching their year-and-a-half anniversary, and he had planned a special dinner, hoping to mend the growing rift between them.

Verity arrived at the restaurant looking beautiful as always, but with a determination in her eyes that made Henry uneasy.

“I’ve been offered a job,” she said, before they had even ordered. “In Paris. With Dior.”

Henry blinked, surprised. “Paris? That’s… wow. Congratulations.”

“I’m taking it,” she continued. “I leave in two weeks.”

Henry felt as if the ground had shifted beneath him. “Two weeks? Verity, that’s so soon. We haven’t even discussed—”

“What is there to discuss?” she interrupted. “You’ve made your choice, Henry. Wynthorne Enterprises. Your father. This life.” She gestured around them, at the expensive restaurant, the other diners in their fine clothes. “And it’s a good life. A comfortable one. But it’s not for me.”

“I thought—” Henry stopped, reorganizing his thoughts. “I thought we were building something together.”

Verity’s expression softened. “I thought so too. But you’ve changed, Henry. Or maybe you haven’t changed enough.” She reached for his hand. “You’re going to be a wonderful CEO. The company will thrive under your leadership. But I can’t wait around for you to figure out if that’s really what you want.”

“So that’s it?” Henry asked, a dull ache spreading through his chest. “A year and a half, and you’re just… done?”

“I’m not done,” Verity said, squeezing his hand. “I’m just choosing my path, the same way you chose yours.” She withdrew her hand gently. “Don’t wait for me, Henry. And I won’t wait for you.”

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur. They spoke of logistics, of memories, of the things they’d miss about each other. But beneath it all, Henry felt a growing numbness, as if something vital had been cut away.

He drove Verity home afterward, and their goodbye was painfully civil—a brief kiss, a promise to keep in touch, an exchange of well-wishes for the future.

It wasn’t until he was alone in his car, staring at the dark road ahead, that the full weight of it hit him. Verity was gone. The one constant in his chaotic life, the one bright spot in all the darkness of the past year and a half—gone.

And despite her words, despite her insistence that he shouldn’t wait, Henry knew with a bone-deep certainty that he would. That if—when—he made Wynthorne Enterprises the success his father dreamed of, Verity would see what he had accomplished. She would come back.

All he had to do was become the man she thought he should be.

The night Verity left for Paris, Henry found himself alone in his father’s study, a bottle of whiskey his only companion. The first drink burned his throat. The second was easier. By the third, the sharp edges of his pain had begun to dull.

He didn’t hear the front door open, didn’t notice the quiet footsteps approaching until Lavinia appeared in the doorway, concern etched on her face.

“Your father called me,” she said by way of explanation. “He was worried.”

Henry laughed bitterly. “About what? That I’d drink myself to death? Maybe that would be easier for everyone.”

Lavinia didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she crossed the room and gently removed the glass from his hand. “Have you eaten anything today?”

Henry shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” she said simply. She disappeared into the kitchen and returned minutes later with a sandwich and a glass of water. “Eat. Then you can go back to feeling sorry for yourself.”

Her directness startled him into compliance. He ate the sandwich mechanically, not tasting it.

“She’s gone,” he said finally, his voice hollow. “She left for Paris tonight.”

Lavinia nodded. “I know. She called me from the airport.”

Of course she had. They were still best friends, after all.

“Did she say anything about me?” Henry asked, hating the desperation in his voice.

Lavinia hesitated. “She said she hopes you find what you’re looking for.”

It wasn’t the answer he wanted. He reached for the whiskey bottle again, but Lavinia moved it out of reach.

“Enough,” she said firmly. “This isn’t helping anyone, least of all you.”

“What would you know about it?” Henry snapped. “Perfect Lavinia Parker, who never makes mistakes, never loses control.”

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Lavinia’s expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes shuttered, as if she had drawn a curtain across her emotions.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” she interrupted, her voice neutral. “You’re hurting. I understand.”

But Henry had a sinking feeling that he had wounded her more deeply than she was letting on. It was another failure to add to the growing list: failure to save his father, failure to pursue his dreams, failure to keep Verity, and now, failure to treat with kindness one of the few people who had stood by him through all of it.

“I’ll stay until you’re sober enough for bed,” Lavinia said, taking a seat in the armchair across from him. “Your father is worried enough without adding drunk driving to his concerns.”

Henry nodded, not trusting himself to speak again. They sat in silence, the ticking of the antique clock on the mantel the only sound.

Eventually, Lavinia picked up a book from the side table and began to read, seemingly content to wait out his intoxication without further conversation. The sight of her there, calm and steady amidst the chaos of his life, stirred something in Henry—a faint sense of gratitude, perhaps, or simply the recognition that not everyone had abandoned him.

He found himself watching her as she read, noting the way the lamplight caught in her dark hair, the serious set of her mouth, the graceful line of her neck as she bent over the book. She was nothing like Verity—no flash, no dazzle, no golden radiance that drew all eyes. But there was something compelling about her stillness, her self-containment, the sense that she knew exactly who she was and needed no one’s approval.

As the alcohol fog began to clear from his mind, Henry realized with a jolt that he had been staring at Lavinia for nearly an hour. She had noticed—he could tell by the faint color in her cheeks—but had said nothing, allowing him this small indiscretion in his grief.

“I think I’m sober enough to make it upstairs now,” he said, breaking the silence.

Lavinia closed her book and nodded. “Good. Get some sleep, Henry. Things will look better in the morning.”

They both knew it was a lie, but Henry appreciated the sentiment nonetheless.

As she gathered her things to leave, he found himself reluctant to see her go. “Lavinia,” he said, as she reached the door. “Thank you. For… everything.”

She paused, turning back to look at him with those serious dark eyes. “You would do the same for me.”

Would he? Henry wasn’t so sure. He had been so wrapped up in Verity, in his father, in his own problems, that he had barely noticed Lavinia’s quiet presence these past months. Had barely acknowledged the countless small ways she had helped him, supported him, without asking for anything in return.

“Still,” he said. “Thank you.”

Lavinia’s lips curved in that small, understated smile. “Goodnight, Henry.”

After she left, the house felt emptier than before. Henry made his way upstairs to his bedroom, his mind a jumble of grief over Verity, worry about his father, and an unexpected new awareness of Lavinia Parker.

He fell asleep with the strange feeling that something significant had shifted in his life, though he couldn’t quite identify what it was.