The journey back to Montclair Manor was silent. Arabella sat beside Alexander in the carriage, her fingers resting lightly atop his, seeking reassurance in the smallest of touches. Yet neither dared to intertwine their handsânot with her father seated across from them, his gaze fixed firmly out the window, his expression carved from stone.
The night before had been theirs aloneâan escape, a dream spun from moonlight and whispered confessions. But dawn had stolen it from them, and now, reality loomed like a storm cloud on the horizon.
Alexander remained quiet, but Arabella could sense the fury simmering beneath his calm exterior.She knew him well enough to recognize the clenched jaw, the steady,measured breathsâhe was forcing himself to remain composed, to obey the conditions set before them. For her.
Her father had made his decree, and there was no room for argument. She would return home. She and Alexander would be married, but only under the strictest of circumstancesâseparate rooms, separate lives, until the day the church doors swung open and vows were spoken.
She turned her gaze out the window, watching the rolling countryside blur past. It felt strange,being taken back to a place she had once thought of as home. After everything, Montclair Manor no longer felt like a sanctuary, but rather a gilded cage, a place where she would be watched, controlled, restrained.
Alexander shifted beside her,his fingers flexing beneath her own before he pulled his hand away,placing it in his lap. She felt the loss of his touch instantly.
Her father noticed.
"I trust you understand what I have permitted," he said, his voice smooth but edged with authority. "You should be grateful, Arabella. I could have arranged for worse."
Arabella forced herself to look at him. "And what would that have been, Father?"
His gaze flickered to Alexander before returning to her. "I could have sent him away.You could have been married to a prince or a duke by the end of the week, your little adventure erased like ink wiped clean from parchment."
Alexander exhaled sharply but remained silent.
Arabella swallowed her anger,knowing that no amount of fighting would change the present. "I do not need gratitude for something I never wished to ask permission for."
Her father raised a brow. "You are still my daughter. And you will do as you are told."
She said nothing, merely turned her gaze back to the world outside. The closer they came to the manor, the tighter the invisible chains wrapped around her.
They arrived as the sun began to sink into the horizon, casting a warm glow over the grand estate. The sight of Montclair Manor sent a hollow ache through Arabella's chest. It loomed before them, its towering windows reflecting the dying light, its walls holding a thousand rules she no longer wished to obey.
The servants greeted them in hushed tones, their gazes flickering with curiosity, with judgment.Arabella ignored them.
As soon as they stepped inside, her father issued instructions.
"Arabella will have her usual room," he declared. "And as for youâ" his gaze landed on Alexander with a look of thinly veiled distaste "âyou will be given chambers at the other end of the manor. You are not to see my daughter without supervision. You will dine together, attend gatherings together, but that is all. Do I make myself clear?"
Arabella's hands curled into fists at her sides.
"Crystal,"Alexander replied, his voice unreadable.
"Good," her father said. Then, with a final look of warning, he turned and strode away,disappearing down the corridor.
A tense silence stretched between Arabella and Alexander as the servants began leading them to their separate rooms.
She turned to him, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want to be apart from you."
His eyes softened. "I know."
"It isn't fair."
His lips twitched into the smallest of smiles, though it was laced with sadness. "No. It isn't."
She reached for his hand then, not caring if the servants saw. He squeezed her fingers gently before letting go.
"We will get through this," he murmured. "I swear it."
Her heart clenched at his words.
But as she was led away, step by step down the familiar halls of her childhood, she wondered if love could truly survive the walls that had been built to keep them apart.
That night, Arabella lay in her bed, staring up at the canopy above her.
It felt strangeâsleeping here after everything, knowing that Alexander was so close, yet utterly unreachable. The memory of the night before burned in her mindâthe way his arms had felt around her, the way he had whispered her name like a prayer.
And now, she was alone once more.
She turned onto her side,pressing her face into the pillow, inhaling the scent of lavender that had clung to her sheets since childhood. It smelled of safety.Of restraint.
She hated it.
A knock at her door made her heart lurch. She sat up instantly, hope sparking through her chest.
But when the door creaked open, it wasn't Alexander standing there.
It was her father.
He stepped inside, the candle in his hand casting flickering shadows across the room.
"Arabella," he said, his voice softer now, weary. "I do not wish to be your enemy."
She watched him warily. "You already are."
His expression tightened. He stepped closer, setting the candle down on her nightstand. "I do this not to punish you, but to protect you. You may think you love this man, but love is fleeting. It is reckless. I have seen what becomes of foolish women who follow their hearts into ruin."
"I am not a fool."
"You are young."
She lifted her chin. "I know what I want."
Her father sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. "Then at least have the dignity to wait. Marriage is sacred. You must uphold its sanctity."
Arabella bit her tongue, holding back the truth that she had already broken that sacred vow.
She would not regret it.
She would never regret it.
Her father studied her a moment longer before turning for the door.
"Goodnight, Arabella."
The door shut behind him, and she was alone once more.
Her chest ached, but she refused to cry.
Instead, she whispered to the night, hoping her words would find their way to the man who belonged in her arms.
"Goodnight, my mockingbird."
And somewhere, in the other wing of the manor, she prayed he was whispering her name in return.