The Man I Once Refused

The rain had been falling since dawn, turning the narrow French roads into slick ribbons of mud and sorrow. Inside a modest black carriage, Amelia Fairbourne sat with her gloved hands clasped tightly in her lap, her heart drumming faster than the raindrops against the glass.Six years. It had been six long years since she last saw Ryan Ashford the man whose name she no longer dared to speak aloud. The man she had once refused.The countryside blurred by in shades of grey and green. France was restless the whispers of revolt had long escaped the taverns and markets, spreading into noble halls and servants’ quarters alike. Even the sky seemed heavy with the weight of change.Amelia pressed her fingers to the small locket that hung around her neck a relic of her past, and of him. When she closed her eyes, she still saw that moment on the steps of Fairbourne Manor, the night she broke his heart.> “I cannot, Ryan. My family would never approve.”“Your family?” His voice had been raw, woun

The evening air lay thick with mist, curling through the corridors like whispered secrets. Candles flickered weakly in their sconces, their flames struggling against a draught that carried the scent of rain and distant smoke.Amelia Fairbourne sat by the small window of her chamber, her sewing abandoned in her lap. She could not sleep. Ever since her arrival, something in the château felt… wrong. The servants spoke in hushed tones, their eyes avoiding hers. And Ryan no, Monsieur Ashford had been distant to the point of cruelty.She had known him once as a man of warmth and laughter. Now he spoke in clipped sentences, his gaze unreadable, as if every word cost him a measure of pain.Amelia pressed her fingers to the windowpane. Beyond the glass, the courtyard shimmered with puddles from the day’s rain. Somewhere beyond those gates lay Paris and the rising tide of revolution. She had seen its edges in the villages: bread riots, tricolour flags, whispers of vengeance. France was unraveli

The Abbey rose from the mist like a memory stone walls half lost to ivy, bell tower leaning slightly from age and neglect. The road that led to it was nothing more than mud and broken cobbles, bordered by the bare skeletons of trees.Amelia Fairbourne dismounted, her legs trembling with exhaustion. Her horse snorted softly, as if relieved to stop. The scent of wet earth and woodsmoke hung in the air.A friar approached from the gate, lantern in hand. His brown robes were frayed at the hem; his beard was silvered with age.“Peace be with you, child,” he said in French. “You are far from any safe road. What brings you to Saint-Léon?”“I was told you offer sanctuary,” Amelia replied, her voice hoarse. “Please… I’ve come a long way.”The friar studied her for a moment, then nodded. “All who seek refuge will find it here. Come.”He led her through the courtyard, past cloisters where vines curled around the columns, into a small guest chamber. The walls were cold, but clean; a simple cross

Amelia ran until her lungs burned and the stitch in her side sharpened like a blade. Behind her, shouts echoed, boots thundering through wet leaves, and Pembroke’s furious voice cut through the night like a curse.But the forest was deep, and the night merciful.The trees swallowed the sound.At last, Amelia stumbled to a halt near the riverbank, collapsing against an ash tree slick with rain. Her breath steamed in the cold air. Her hands shook—not just from running but from the fear she kept locked behind her ribs.Ryan. Where are you?She pressed a hand to the small satchel at her hip. Inside was his letter the one she had read so many times its edges had softened.She didn’t know whether he lived.She didn’t know whether he was free.She didn’t know if the next step she took would lead her to him or take her farther away.But she knew one thing with absolute clarity.She could not lose him again.A slow ache grew behind her eyes. Her head tipped back against the tree as tears, stub

The water swallowed Amelia whole.Cold, vicious, alive.It dragged her down so fast she couldn’t tell which way was the surface and which way was the dark bottom of the world. Her lungs burned. Her fingers reached blindly, cutting through icy foam, searching Ryan, where was Ryan? She had felt his hand in hers right before the bridge gave way. She had heard him shout her name. She hadA violent current slammed her against something wood? Rock? She couldn’t tell. Pain burst along her ribs. Another wave spun her around. The river roared louder than cannon fire.Fight, Amelia.She clawed upward, kicking, pushing, refusing to surrender to the dark. At last her head broke the surface. She gulped air, choking, blinded by spray and moonlight.“RYAN!” she screamed.Only the river answered, cruel and uncaring.“RYAN!”Nothing.A log rushed toward her, and she latched onto it desperately, nails digging into the bark. The current dragged her away, spinning her downstream like a leaf in a storm. T