Too Late For Regret: His Discarded Rose

Brianna POV

On the night I thought I finally escaped my mother's shadow, Ashton Cole, my fiancé, shattered my world with a single, cruel demand. He told me he would marry another woman for business, and I could remain his secret lover. My mother's scandalous past, which he once promised to protect me from, became his weapon against me.

I had loved him with the kind of blind devotion that only comes from having been saved. When I was seventeen, a bullied outcast marked by my mother's disgrace, Ashton had stepped in and chased away the monsters. He brought me coffee, walked me to class, spoke of justice and innocence. He was the wall I leaned on when the world felt like it was crumbling. And now, he was dismantling it brick by brick.

The engagement party shimmered around us, a vibrant blur of laughter and clinking glasses. Ashton's hand, still warm from holding mine moments before, slipped away. He leaned closer. His breath, usually smelling of mint and expensive cologne, now carried a cold edge.

"Brianna," he began, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. "We need to talk about our future."

My heart pounded a happy rhythm. I imagined discussions about wedding venues, honeymoon destinations. "Yes, Ashton?" I smiled, my gaze fixed on the diamond gleaming on my finger.

He cleared his throat. "I've decided to formalize my partnership with Kiley McConnell."

My smile froze. Kiley McConnell, the sharp, ambitious new executive at Hampton Industries. I had seen her at company events-impeccably dressed, commanding attention. I once asked Ashton why he spent so much time with her. He said she was "a force of nature," and I mistook admiration for professional respect. A prickle of unease ran through me.

"Formalize your partnership?" I asked. "What does that mean for us?"

Ashton's eyes, once so warm, were now distant, calculating. He adjusted his tie-a nervous habit I had learned to read. But this time, the calculation wasn't about making me feel safe. "It means Kiley and I will marry. For business, of course."

The words hit me like a physical blow. The glittering ballroom, the happy faces, the music-everything spun into a dizzying kaleidoscope of disbelief.

"Marry?" I whispered. "You're going to marry Kiley?"

He nodded, curt. "A strategic alliance, Brianna. Her connections, her drive-invaluable for the company's expansion."

A cold dread seeped into my bones. "And what about me?"

Ashton's gaze finally met mine, but there was no compassion. Only chilling pragmatism. "You'll remain my confidante, my closest companion. Privately. You understand, don't you? It's for the best."

Privately. He wanted me to become his mistress. The humiliation burned through me, hotter than any shame my mother had ever brought.

"Private?" I repeated, my voice rising. "You want me to be your secret lover while you marry another woman?"

He shifted, impatience flickering across his face. "Think about it, Brianna. Your mother's entanglement makes you a liability in certain elite circles. Kiley, on the other hand, brings a clean public image. People remember your mother's scandal, Brianna. They always will. This way, you're protected."

The casual way he weaponized my deepest wound twisted inside me like a knife. He knew every scar. He had watched me flinch at the mention of my mother's name. And now he was using that knowledge to justify his cruelty. He wasn't protecting me. He was burying me.

"No," I said, my voice shaking but firm. "I cannot accept that role. Never."

His jaw tightened. "Brianna, be reasonable. This is your chance to maintain your comfortable life. Refuse, and you lose everything. You know what it's like to be alone."

I looked at him and saw a stranger. The man I loved was gone. My heart broke, but a new, steely resolve formed in its place. I thought of my mother, alone in that small apartment, the note she left. I would not become her. "Then I lose everything," I replied flatly.

Ashton reached out, his hand brushing my arm. "Brianna, don't be so dramatic. I still care for you." His touch felt like ash.

"Remember what happened to your mother," he pressed, his voice dropping. "The humiliation, the isolation. You don't want to repeat that, do you? I'm offering you a way out."

A flicker of cold, pure rage ignited within me. He saw me as a damaged commodity. But I wasn't that terrified girl anymore. I had someone.

An image of my aunt Caryl flashed in my mind. She had vanished after the scandal, choosing to protect her own burgeoning tech empire from association with my family's notoriety. But six months ago, after years of silence, she sent me a cryptic message: "If things ever go south, I'm always here. Your mother's mistakes don't define you." I had dismissed it then, cushioned by Ashton's affection. Now, her words echoed with urgent significance.

I discreetly retrieved my phone from my clutch. Under the cover of a nearby potted palm, I typed: "I need to leave. Now."

Almost instantly, my phone vibrated. A single word: "Done." No questions. No hesitation.

Ashton, oblivious, patted my hand. "See? Everything will be fine. You're just emotional." He mistook my silence for acquiescence. He believed he had won.

"Come on," he said. "Kiley wants us to arrive at the gala together. She's particular about appearances."

"You'll ride in the back," he instructed. "Kiley prefers the front seat tonight. She thinks it looks better for our public debut."

My eyes widened. The back. I was his fiancée-or had been. Now I was relegated to the back seat, a silent accessory to his betrayal. The indignity burned through me.

"She feels it projects a stronger, more unified image for the business partnership," he added. "You understand, right? Kiley and I will make the official announcement tonight. We're getting married within the month."

My breath hitched. He had once described Kiley to me as "bold," "unconventional," "a force of nature." Then, he called her a "dragon lily"-beautiful, but with a hidden sting. I had dismissed it as a fanciful compliment. Now the image of a predatory flower seared into my mind.

A sharp pain shot through my palm. I gasped. A concealed rose thorn, broken from a wilting centerpiece, had pierced my skin. A thin line of red bloomed on my hand. A single drop of blood fell onto Kiley's white silk dress.

"What's wrong?" Ashton asked, irritated.

"No, not there!" he snapped, his gaze fixed not on my bleeding hand, but on the small, almost imperceptible stain. "You'll ruin Kiley's gown!"

My blood, my pain, was a mere inconvenience. The insult was a physical blow, worse than any punch.

"Be more careful," he said, pulling out a pristine handkerchief to dab at the dress. "And try not to touch anything of Kiley's. She's quite particular." He then neatly folded the soiled handkerchief and tucked it away.

I stood there, my hand still bleeding, forgotten.

"Remember, the back seat," he repeated.

"No," I heard myself say, the word firm, clear. My voice was no longer shaking.

Ashton paused. "Very well. Then you may find your own way to the gala. Kiley and I have an entrance to make."

He opened the passenger door. Kiley McConnell already sat inside, her eyes fixed on me with a knowing, triumphant gleam.

The engine roared. With a screech of tires, Ashton pulled away. The car sped down the street, Kiley's smiling face a fleeting blur. I was abandoned-not just by Ashton, but by the illusion of safety he had offered. Rain began to fall, cold and unforgiving.

Brianna POV

The rain mercilessly lashed down, soaking my thin cocktail dress. My designer heels, bought with such hopeful excitement, slipped on the wet pavement. Each step was a struggle, my hair plastered to my face, mascara streaking down my cheeks like war paint. The chill cut through me, but it was nothing compared to the icy despair that gripped my heart. Cars zoomed past, their headlights briefly illuminating my pathetic figure before vanishing into the night. Pedestrians, huddled under umbrellas, gave me wide, wary looks-pity and judgment. I was a spectacle, exactly what I had always feared.

"Fool," I muttered, my teeth chattering. "Such a fool."

Memories surfaced. My mother, Eleanor Moore, once a respected interior designer, had become a pariah eighteen years ago. Her glittering career imploded in a spectacular financial scandal. She had invested heavily in a shady real estate venture, leveraging clients' funds and our family assets, all in a desperate attempt to outmaneuver her ambitious business rival, Julian Hayes. But Julian caught wind of her scheme. He leaked the truth to the press, exposing her fraudulent dealings.

The scandal erupted with devastating force. My mother's name was dragged through every tabloid. Clients lost millions. A major investor, an older man who had poured his life savings into her firm, suffered a massive heart attack and died shortly after the news broke. My mother, once celebrated, was now reviled as a criminal and, worse, a killer.

She and I moved to a small, isolated town. But the internet never forgets. When I was in high school, old news articles resurfaced. The story went viral again. The relentless cyberbullying pushed her to the brink. One rainy morning, she ended her life. Her note apologized for the shame and begged me to escape her legacy.

I became "the daughter of that woman." Whispers followed me everywhere. Classmates left hateful messages on my locker: "Like mother, like daughter." Others would "accidentally" spill drinks on me, then mock my wet clothes. "Careful, don't want to ruin your next scam." The worst was: "You'll end up just like her. A fraud. Alone."

Then Ashton Cole entered my life. He was a senior from a respected family. One day, he saw bullies pelting me with paper balls. He strode over and dismantled their arguments with calm, logical words. "Her mother's actions are not her own," he said. "Do you truly believe a child is born guilty of a parent's sins?" His words, intellectual and measured, disarmed them. They faltered, mumbled, and eventually dispersed.

Slowly, the harassment lessened. Ashton walked me to class, brought me coffee before exams, remembered my favorite order without me asking. He made me feel seen-not as the daughter of a scandal, but as Brianna. My heart, bruised and guarded, unfurled for him. He had been my salvation. I never questioned his motives. I never imagined he would one day become the source of my destruction.

Now, standing drenched in the rain, I couldn't comprehend how that savior had become my tormentor. How the man who swore to protect me had weaponized my deepest wound. The incongruity was a fresh agony. My legs gave out. I collapsed onto the wet pavement. Darkness swallowed me whole.

I awoke to the antiseptic smell of a hospital room. The soft hum of medical equipment filled the air. My arm felt heavy, a cool IV dripping into my vein. The sheets were crisp, white-a stark contrast to the grimy street where I had collapsed. My head throbbed.

A kind-faced nurse checked my vitals. "You're stable now, dear. Just need rest and quiet. You've been through a shock."

"Thank you," I murmured.

Just then, my phone vibrated. Ashton's name lit the screen. I hesitated, then answered.

"Brianna," his voice came through, devoid of its usual charm. "I need you to do something. Kiley left her favorite emerald brooch at the apartment. She needs it for the gala tonight. Can you drop it off at the venue? The security will know to let you in."

Kiley. The name echoed. Her favorite emerald brooch-Ashton had presented it to her at a company dinner, a grand gesture. I also remembered a silver locket he had given me years ago, engraved with our initials. He had called it a symbol of our unbreakable bond. Now he treated me like an errand girl.

"I'm in the hospital," I stated flatly. "I collapsed last night."

A beat of silence. Then, his voice hard and impatient. "Don't be dramatic, Brianna. You're fine. I need that brooch. If Kiley doesn't have it, she'll be furious. You wouldn't want to jeopardize my reputation, would you?"

A cold calm settled over me. This was it-the last thread of obligation I would ever feel toward him. I owed him for pulling me out of the darkness all those years ago. This would be the last time I let him use that debt against me.

"Fine," I said. "I'll do it."

I called the nurse to remove the IV. She frowned, concerned, but I insisted.

The rain had intensified, turning the city into a blurred watercolor. I hailed a cab, retrieved the brooch from my empty apartment, and arrived at the glittering gala venue. Ashton's words replayed: "Kiley will be at the entrance. She'll thank you."

I stepped out into the cold air. Kiley stood under the awning, a vision in a shimmering emerald gown that perfectly matched the brooch. Her eyes, sharp and predatory, locked onto mine.

As I approached, she smiled-a thin, cruel line. "You made it," she purred.

I extended my hand with the brooch. Instead of taking it, she lashed out, shoving me hard in the chest. I stumbled, losing my balance. The emerald brooch flew from my grasp, skittering across the polished floor and shattering against a pillar.

Kiley's face instantly contorted into a mask of distress. "Oh, Ashton!" she wailed. "Look what she's done! She ruined it! My beautiful brooch!" She pointed a trembling finger at the shattered pieces, then at me. "She threw it down! She must be so jealous, so resentful!"

I stared at her, my mind reeling. Jealous?

Just then, the grand doors swung open. Ashton emerged. "Kiley, what's wrong?"

Kiley pointed at the shattered pieces, then at me. "She ruined it! She's so bitter!"

Ashton's gaze flickered from the broken brooch to my stunned face. He didn't ask what happened. He didn't even pause. His hand shot out, grabbing my arm with a force that made me wince.

"What is wrong with you, Brianna?" he hissed. "Apologize to Kiley! Now!"

A bitter, hysterical laugh bubbled up from my throat. "Did you even ask what happened?"

Kiley, still nestled against Ashton, sniffled. "I did push her, Ashton. But she was being so aggressive, so threatening. I just reacted. My temper-you know it's a bit fiery. Like a dragon lily. But she shouldn't have thrown the brooch!"

Ashton's arm tightened around Kiley's waist. He looked at her with an adoration that sickened me. "It's alright, my dragon lily. You did nothing wrong." He glanced at me, his eyes cold and accusing. "Apologize, Brianna."

Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the cold rain. But beneath the despair, a tiny spark ignited-defiance, resilience, the promise I had made to myself never to become my mother.

"I... I apologize," I forced out. The words tasted like ash.

Kiley preened. "Oh, that's not enough. I want you to admit what you are. Publicly. Say you're Ashton's discarded lover. Say your mother's past made you unsuitable for a true wife. Say you were nothing more than a cheap thrill."

The words struck like a thousand needles. But I found my voice. "No," I said, gaining strength. "I am not that person. And Ashton and I are finished."

With trembling fingers, I twisted off my engagement ring. The diamond, once a symbol of everything I had hoped for, felt heavy. I held it out to Ashton. "This is yours. Our engagement is over."

He didn't move. The ring fell from my grasp, bouncing once and rolling to a stop near the shattered brooch.

Kiley grabbed my arm, her nails digging in. "You think you can just walk away?" She pulled me into full view of arriving guests. "Look at her! Ashton's scandalous ex-fiancée, trying to crash our party! A woman just like her mother!"

Whispers started. "Isn't that Brianna Moore? The daughter of that Eleanor Moore?" "What's she doing here?" "Like mother, like daughter."

Ashton stepped forward, pulling Kiley close. "Brianna and I are no longer together," he announced. "Kiley is my fiancée now. My true partner."

Kiley clung to him. "She even tried to hurt herself for sympathy earlier! But Ashton, bless his heart, wouldn't fall for her tricks!"

A sharp sting on my cheek-a splash of red wine. Then more liquid. Champagne, water, juice-hurled by the growing crowd. Someone emptied a bowl of punch over my head. Sticky, sweet liquid matted my hair, dripped down my dress. I stood there, a human target.

Kiley, nestled in Ashton's arms, watched with a triumphant smile. Ashton's face remained impassive-a statue, a silent accomplice.

A hard shove sent me sprawling onto the cold marble floor. Kicks followed-to my back, my sides, my legs. I curled into a fetal position, shielding my head. This was what my mother had endured. The public shaming, the brutal dehumanization. I had sworn I would never follow her path. But now it was happening anyway.

A surge of adrenaline coursed through me. I would not succumb. I scrambled to my feet, my soaked dress heavy, my body aching. I ran.

I ran past the bewildered security guards, toward the elevators. I pressed the button for the highest floor. Ashton's voice, laced with panic, echoed behind me. "Brianna! Stop! Don't do it! Don't be like her!"

The elevator doors opened. I burst out onto the rooftop. The wind whipped around me. Rain lashed my face. The helipad was illuminated. A sleek, black helicopter waited, its blades slowly rotating. Caryl. She had come. A ladder descended from the belly of the machine.

I didn't hesitate. I grasped the cold metal and started to climb. Each rung was a step away from the nightmare, a step toward a new life.

Brianna POV

The helicopter blades whirred louder as I climbed. When my feet cleared the rooftop, the ladder retracted, and the aircraft ascended sharply, leaving the glittering, cruel city far below. I collapsed onto the plush leather seat, my body heavy with exhaustion, and drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I woke to soft murmurs and the scent of lavender. Sunlight streamed through a large window, illuminating an elegant room with high ceilings, antique furniture, fresh flowers. I was in a grand, antique bed. A new IV dripped steadily into my arm.

"You're awake, thank goodness." Caryl's voice, crisp and clear, cut through the fog. She sat by the bedside, her piercing blue eyes filled with concern and a familiar, steely resolve.

"Where am I?" I asked, my voice rough.

"London. My private residence. You've been here for three days, mostly sedated. A complete collapse." She looked away, her jaw tight. "Those monsters. How dare they."

She turned back to me, her expression softening. "But you're safe now. I've arranged for the best medical team. You'll heal here, far away from all of that." She reached for a bowl on the nightstand, picked up a perfectly peeled apple, and began to cut it into neat slices. She extended a piece to me. "Eat. You need your strength. And remember, Brianna, you are worthy of peace and happiness. May you always be well, my dear."

I took the apple. The first bite was small, tentative-but it was something. A beginning.

The weeks that followed were not easy. Night after night, I woke gasping, the phantom sensation of wine on my face, kicks on my ribs. Caryl never complained. She would appear in my doorway with a cup of tea, sit on the edge of my bed, and say nothing until my breathing slowed. Sometimes she would read aloud from a novel-something light, something with a happy ending. I clung to those stories like a lifeline.

"You survived," she told me once. "That's not nothing. That's everything."

Slowly, I began to believe her.

One evening, about a month into my recovery, I found Caryl at her desk, scowling at her laptop. "What's wrong?" I asked.

She hesitated, then turned the screen toward me. A headline: "Disgraced Financier Ashton Cole Places Full-Page Ad Apologizing to 'The One I Wronged' – Public Searches for Missing Ex-Fiancée."

My stomach clenched. Below the headline was a scanned image of a newspaper ad-Ashton's signature, his elegant script. "Brianna, I was a coward. I let them destroy you. I don't expect forgiveness, but I need the world to know the truth: you did nothing wrong. Please, let me find you. Just to say I'm sorry."

I stared at the screen. Then I looked away. "Close it," I said.

Caryl did. "He's been doing this for weeks. Ads, interviews, even a private investigator. I've had my lawyers block him at every turn. He won't find you here."

I nodded. "Thank you."

"Do you want to see any of it? He's written letters too. Dozens. I burned them."

I thought for a moment. The girl I had been would have been desperate for any sign of his remorse. That girl was gone. "No," I said. "I don't need to see them."

She squeezed my hand. "Good. Because you're not his to find anymore."

I started walking in the garden behind her house-a wild, beautiful mess of roses and lavender and climbing ivy. I started sketching again: small things at first-a leaf, a cloud, the way light fell across a stone wall. Then larger things: gardens I would one day build, spaces where people could feel safe. My mother had taught me to draw before everything fell apart. It felt like reclaiming a piece of her that wasn't stained by scandal.

One afternoon, as I sat on a stone bench sketching a trellis, I heard footsteps. I looked up. A man was kneeling by the conservatory wall, measuring tape in hand, muttering to himself about load-bearing beams. He hadn't noticed me.

"Excuse me," I said.

He startled, dropping his tape. When he looked up, our eyes met. He had kind eyes-warm brown, crinkling at the corners, with none of the sharp calculation I had learned to recognize in men of business. He was handsome in an unassuming way, the kind of handsome that grew on you.

"Oh, sorry," he said, scrambling to his feet. "I didn't know anyone was out here. You must be Brianna. I'm Jonas. Your aunt hired me to redesign this conservatory."

"She didn't mention you'd be starting today."

He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. "I like to get an early look at spaces. Measure twice, cut once, my da always said." An accent softened his words-Cornish, I later learned. "Are you the one who does the gardens? Your aunt showed me your sketches. They're-" He paused, searching for a word. "-alive. They feel like they're breathing."

Something in my chest loosened. "Thank you."

That was the beginning. Jonas was patient in a way I hadn't known men could be. He didn't push. He didn't pry. When he noticed I flinched at sudden loud noises, he started announcing his presence before entering a room. When he saw my nightmares had left me exhausted, he brought me chamomile tea without asking why.

"Your aunt told me you've been through something," he said one evening, as we sat on the garden bench watching the sunset. "She didn't give details. And I don't need them. I just need you to know that you're safe here. With me, I mean. Not just in the garden."

I looked at him-really looked. There was no agenda in his face. No hidden bargain.

"Thank you," I said again. It felt insufficient. But he smiled as if it was enough.

Weeks turned into months. Jonas finished the conservatory, but he kept finding reasons to come back. "The drainage needs adjusting." "The light in the morning is wrong-I should add a skylight." "I miss your aunt's biscuits." I didn't mind. I found myself looking forward to his visits.

One night, a thunderstorm woke me from a nightmare. I stumbled downstairs to find Jonas sitting in the dark kitchen, a cup of cold coffee in his hands. He couldn't sleep either-he had told me once that his mother's death haunted him, that some nights he still heard her voice.

"You're awake," I said.

He looked up. "So are you."

I sat across from him. The rain hammered the windows. For a long time, neither of us spoke. Then he reached across the table and placed his hand over mine. Not grabbing. Not demanding. Just... present.

"I'm not hiding anymore," I whispered. "But I don't know how to be anything else."

He squeezed my hand gently. "Then let's figure it out together."

I kissed him that night. It wasn't dramatic or desperate. It was quiet, certain-like coming up for air after years underwater.

In the months that followed, I learned that Jonas was not a fortress. He had his own cracks. One night, we were watching an old film-something about a mother and son-when he went quiet. Too quiet. I paused the movie and looked at him. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the screen but not seeing it.

"Jonas?" I said softly.

He didn't answer for a long moment. Then: "My mum died when I was twenty-two. Cancer. She never saw me become an architect. Never saw any of it."

I had known his mother was gone, but he had never spoken of her like this. I reached for his hand.

"I used to call her every Sunday," he continued, his voice thick. "After she died, I kept picking up the phone. For months. Just to hear her voicemail. Then one day, her number was reassigned." He swallowed hard. "Some stranger answered. I hung up and never called again."

I moved closer, resting my head on his shoulder. "Tell me about her."

He looked at me, surprised. "You want to hear?"

"I want to hear everything."

So he told me. About his mother's garden, her terrible cooking, the way she hummed off-key while folding laundry. He talked until his voice grew hoarse, and I listened until the sky outside turned gray with dawn.

When he finally fell silent, he turned to me. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not telling me to get over it."

I squeezed his hand. "I would never."

That night, I understood something new about us. We were not two halves of a whole. We were two whole people who had chosen to carry each other's weight. Not because we needed saving, but because we wanted to.

We married a year later. Small ceremony, just family. Caryl cried. I didn't-I laughed. Jonas wore a suit that was slightly too loose in the shoulders, and he stepped on my foot during our first dance. It was perfect.

Our first home was a small flat in Islington with a balcony just big enough for two chairs and a pot of rosemary. We talked about the future in fragments: maybe a garden, maybe a child, maybe a house with a studio for me. None of it seemed impossible anymore.

When I learned I was pregnant with our daughter, I was terrified. What if the past followed her? What if the whispers reached her? Jonas found me crying in the bathroom, the pregnancy test in my trembling hand.

"Brianna," he said softly, kneeling beside me. "Our children will know who you are. Not from tabloids or whispers. From you. From us. That's enough."

I let him hold me. And I believed him.

Our daughter arrived on a rainy Tuesday, screaming her fury at the world. Jonas held her for hours, his large hands cradling her tiny form with impossible gentleness. "You have your mother's strength," he whispered to her. "And her stubbornness. God help us both."

Two years later, our son was born-a tornado of energy and endless questions. He took his first steps toward a rose bush. He spoke his first word-"no"-with impressive authority. Jonas built them a treehouse in the garden of the house we had bought, a Victorian fixer-upper with creaky floors and a fireplace that smoked. I designed the garden around it: roses, lavender, sage, things that smelled like peace.

I became a successful landscape designer. My first big project was a public park in a forgotten corner of London. I designed a quiet corner there-a bench under a weeping willow, surrounded by white roses. A place to sit, to breathe, to remember that survival was its own kind of art.

The day the park opened, Jonas came with the children. Our daughter, then six, ran to the bench and declared it her "reading spot." Our son used it as a launching pad for a game involving imaginary dragons. I watched them and felt something I had never dared to name before: contentment.

Eighteen years passed like that-not in a blur, but in a slow accumulation of small, precious moments. Sunday mornings with Jonas reading the paper while I sketched. Dance parties in the kitchen. Arguments about homework and screen time. The quiet weight of a hand on my shoulder when I was tired. Jonas never once asked me to "get over" my past. He simply walked beside me.

Caryl visited often, her tough exterior softening with each passing year. She doted on the children, bought them ridiculous gifts, and never once mentioned Ashton's name in my presence. I assumed he had given up.

I had almost forgotten about him.

Until one crisp autumn afternoon in London.

The children were playing in a small park near our hotel-we were visiting for a week, showing them the sights. Jonas sat on a bench, watching them. I walked alone, savoring the cool air and the gentle rustle of leaves. A familiar scent drifted from a nearby cafe-damp earth and expensive coffee.

Then I saw him.

He was sitting on a park bench, hunched over, his once sharp features now gaunt and hollow. His expensive suits had been replaced by worn, stained clothes. His hair, once impeccably styled, was long and unkempt, streaked with gray. He looked like a ghost-a shadow of the man I had once loved and hated.

I walked past him, hardly registering his presence beyond a fleeting sense of pity for a stranger's misfortune.

But as I passed, a ragged voice, raspy and thin, called out a name I hadn't heard in two decades. "Brianna? Is that really you?"

I stopped. My heart gave a strange, cold lurch. I turned slowly. His eyes, once so bright, were now dull and bloodshot, but they held an undeniable recognition. It was Ashton.

"Ashton," I replied, my voice calm, devoid of any discernible emotion. It was a statement, not a question.

He flinched, as if my calm tone was a physical blow. He slowly stood, a tremor running through his emaciated frame. His shoulders were slumped, his posture defeated. He looked at me with a desperate, almost pleading light in his eyes.

"May I... may I speak with you?" he stammered, his gaze dropping to the ground, as if ashamed. His voice was barely a whisper, filled with a raw vulnerability I had never heard from him before. He was a broken man.

I glanced toward the park. Jonas had seen him. He caught my eye, a silent question in his gaze. I gave a small, reassuring nod. He smiled back, his trust absolute, and turned to distract the children.

I turned back to Ashton. "Very well," I said. "For a moment."