Lucien pushed open their bedroom door, already preparing to grovel at her feet–to hold her close or give her space, whatever she asked of him. He'd hurt her, he knew. And it would be a long road to recovery and forgiveness. Her words still haunted him: And I'm just the housekeeper, is that it?
If she could think that–even for a moment–he was clearly doing something wrong. Maybe he'd whisper everything that needed to be said into the quiet, still darkness of their bedroom. He'd tell her she was his soulmate, his heart, his consciousness, his everything. It wouldn't be enough but it'd be a start.
Except Jean wasn't in their bedroom.
The sheets were cool and crisp, untouched since they made the bed this morning. (Had it really been only this morning that they were teasing each other and throwing throw pillows at the other? It seemed a lifetime ago.)
The light in their bedroom was off and he could not detect any sign of her presence in the room. Even her slippers and robe were missing.
Panicking, his heart thumping in his chest, he turned and walked slowly to Jean's old room–the housekeeper's room. Each step felt like another step to a death sentence. HIs hands were clammy and his mouth was impossibly dry.
Light streamed into the hallway from beneath Jean's door and his heart fell to his stomach. She was spending the night here. Away from him.
A thousand thoughts raced through his mind: Was she reconsidering his offer to let her out of the engagement? Was she deciding if he was worth the trouble? Was this permanent?
He'd grown accustomed to sleeping with Jean pressed to his side, her weight and warmth his own personal protection against nightmares of the past. And he was losing that–losing her.
Closing is eyes, he raised his hand to knock, to plead with her to return to him, to make everything better, to promise him they were still okay and she still loved him. He thought about falling to his knees, to beg her to say those words–he needed to hear those words.
And then the weight of his insecurities and fears crashed in on him: You don't deserve her. You're not worthy of her. You're a burden. Let her go. Let her be.
Jean needed time away from him–temporarily, he hoped, but if she decided she wanted out, he would let her go. It would kill him, but he would do it. For her.
His hand, poised to knock on her door, fell to his side and he walked away, back to the cold, empty loneliness of their once-shared bedroom.