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, wounded. “Or you?”

She had turned away before answering, but her silence had spoken all too clearly.

Now, six years later, her family name meant nothing. Fairbourne Manor was lost to debt and desperation. Her father’s passing had left her adrift, forced to seek work and when word came of an English estate in France seeking a governess and translator, she had clutched at it like a drowning woman grasping a lifeline.

She had not known until yesterday who the estate belonged to.

Ashford.

Even the name had stolen her breath.

The carriage jolted violently as it turned onto a gravel road. Through the fogged glass, Amelia caught her first glimpse of the Château d’Ashford a grand, imposing mansion of pale stone perched upon a hill, framed by black iron gates. The lamps flickered dimly in the courtyard, shadows dancing like ghosts.

Her heart twisted. This was no longer the Ryan she had once known the passionate dreamer who’d sworn he’d change the world. This was Monsieur Ashford, the English industrialist whispered about across Paris a man said to have no heart, no mercy, and no desire for love.

The carriage drew to a stop. A stern-faced servant opened the door, his voice curt.

“Miss Fairbourne, Monsieur Ashford awaits you in the study.”

Amelia’s boots touched the wet cobblestones. She drew in a steadying breath and lifted her skirts, careful not to show her trembling hands.

Inside, the château was grand but cold marble floors, high ceilings, and a silence that pressed against her chest. The air smelled faintly of ink, smoke, and rain. Portraits lined the walls ancestors, perhaps, or trophies of conquest.

Her guide led her through a long corridor and stopped before two tall oak doors.

“Wait here.”

He disappeared within, leaving her alone in the dim light of the corridor. Amelia’s pulse thundered. She wanted to flee, to run back into the storm, but her pride anchored her feet.

Moments later, the doors opened.

“Enter.”

The voice was deep, measured unmistakably English.

She stepped inside.

The study was vast, its walls lined with books and ledgers. A fire burned low in the hearth, casting amber light across a large mahogany desk. Behind it stood Ryan Ashford, taller than she remembered, his shoulders broader, his expression carved from ice.

His hair was darker now, his jaw sharper but his eyes… those eyes were still the same. Grey as winter steel.

For a long moment, he said nothing. His gaze moved over her face, down to the trembling hands she tried to hide. When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth but distant.

“So. Miss Fairbourne. It has been some time.”

“Six years,” she whispered before she could stop herself.

A faint curve touched his lips not a smile, but something colder. “Indeed. And now you seek employment. Here.”

“I— yes. I was told you required someone fluent in both English and French.”

“I do.” He walked around the desk, every movement controlled. “But I must admit, I never expected the woman who once rejected me to arrive on my doorstep… asking for work.”

Amelia’s breath caught. “I had no idea this estate belonged to you, Monsieur Ashford.”

“No?” His tone was laced with disbelief. “Fate does have a cruel sense of humor.”

He came closer, stopping only a few feet away. She could feel the heat of the fire behind him, and the chill of his distance before her.

“I’m not here to stir the past,” she managed, though her voice trembled. “I only ask for a chance to prove my worth.”

Ryan’s eyes softened for the briefest moment a flicker of the man she’d once known before hardening again.

“You’ll find the position demanding,” he said. “My household tolerates no weakness.”

“I understand.”

He studied her, then turned toward the window where the storm lashed against the glass. “Very well. You may begin tomorrow. The servants will show you to your quarters.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Ashford.” She curtsied, her voice barely audible.

But as she turned to leave, his voice cut through the air low, deliberate.

“One more thing, Miss Fairbourne.”

She froze.

“When I offered you my heart, you refused it,” he said softly. “I wonder how long you’ll last now that your livelihood depends on the man you once dismissed.”

The words struck her like a blade not because of their cruelty, but because of the ache beneath them.

She turned slowly, meeting his eyes. “I will endure whatever is required, sir.”

A faint smile ghosted his lips unreadable, dangerous. “We shall see.”

The door closed behind her, and she leaned against the corridor wall, her heart pounding. She could still hear his voice, low and haunting, echoing in her mind.

But as the thunder rolled outside, she didn’t see the letter Ryan held in his hand sealed in black wax, bearing the royal insignia.

The words scrawled across it read:

“Arrest orders for Amelia Fairbourne. Suspected of aiding the revolution.”

And with that, the storm outside seemed to deepen.