Find a house.
The third was more cautious.
He asked her not to discuss their relationship publicly.
Claimed his family's business affairs were complicated.
And suggested patience.
The final letter arrived after she confronted him about his engagement.
Its tone was cold.
He accused her of misunderstanding his intentions.
Suggested that she had become emotionally unreasonable.
And insisted that any future discussion occur through his attorney.
Clara stared at the page.
She remembered how desperately she'd wanted him to explain.
To apologize.
To admit he'd loved her.
Instead, he transformed their relationship into a problem his lawyers could manage.
She folded the letters carefully.
Then picked up the proposed agreement.
The paper was expensive.
The language formal.
Every paragraph seemed designed to make surrender sound voluntary.
She read the provision concerning the child.
Her stomach tightened.
For a moment, she pressed both hands over her belly.
Then whispered, "No one is taking you."
She had spoken those words many times.
On the train.
In the boardinghouse.
During sleepless nights.
And now, in a room belonging to a man she'd deceived, she spoke them again.
A soft knock interrupted her.
"Clara?"
Gabriel.
She quickly placed the papers in a neat stack.
"Yes?"
"Coffee's ready. There's bread downstairs."
She swallowed.
"I'll come."
He paused.
Then said, "No hurry."
His footsteps moved away.
Clara sat motionless.
For a moment, she wondered whether kindness could hurt more than anger.
If Gabriel had shouted, she might have defended herself.
If he'd insulted her, she could have become angry.
But he kept bringing food.
Checking whether she was cold.
Speaking gently.
And somehow, that made her feel the full weight of what she'd done.
She gathered the documents.
Tied them with a ribbon.
Then went downstairs.
Gabriel stood beside the stove.
He wore a faded work shirt, dark trousers, and heavy boots.
His hair was still damp from washing.
He looked tired.
When Clara entered, he glanced toward her.
"Morning."
"Good morning."
He gestured toward the table.
"There's bread and butter."
She nodded.
They ate quietly.
The silence wasn't hostile.
But it was unfamiliar.
Four days earlier, breakfast had been filled with cautious smiles and small discoveries.
Now every movement felt deliberate.
Gabriel drank his coffee.
Clara broke a piece of bread.
Jasper lay near the stove.
Finally, she placed the tied documents on the table.
"These are the letters."
Gabriel looked down.
Then toward her.
"All of them?"
"The ones I kept."
He nodded.
"May I read them?"