Pansy was in the middle of another grueling round of potty training with Princess, who, for the third time that morning, had decided the parlor rug was the ideal place to relieve herself. "Honestly, Peony, this is the last time!" she muttered, hands on her hips as she surveyed the tiny pug with a mixture of exasperation and affection. Lady Lemongrass watched from her favorite spot on the couch, looking altogether too pleased with the chaos that her new "sister" was causing.
Just as Pansy began rolling up the rug with a heavy sigh, her fireplace erupted in green flames, and Luna's tear-streaked face appeared, looking frantic.
"Pansy!" Luna's voice cracked, barely above a whisper, but laced with panic.
Pansy's heart dropped instantly. She abandoned the rug and crouched in front of the fireplace. "Luna? What's wrong? Are you alright?"
Luna nodded but sniffed, her voice thick with emotion. "I… I think I need help, Pansy."
"Oh, Merlin, love—just stay where you are. I'm coming over right now." Without a second thought, she threw on her robe, grabbed a handful of Floo powder, and called back to Lady Lemongrass and Peony, "Hold down the fort, girls." She stepped into the flames and called, "Nott Manor!"
The living room was a chaotic mess, as if a storm had torn through. Cushions were strewn about, shards of glass glittered across the floor, and several pieces of furniture lay overturned. Every detail spoke of a frenzy, but it was the faint sound of Luna's muffled sobs, carried through the silence, that sent her heart racing with worry.
"LUNA, DARLING, WHERE ARE YOU?" she called out, straining to keep her voice steady as she looked around.
"In the bedroom!" Luna's voice was hoarse and trembling, barely audible, but it was enough.
Without a second thought, she rushed up the grand staircase, her footsteps echoing against the silence. Pushing open the bedroom door, she found Luna curled up at the foot of the bed, surrounded by a cluster of anxious house-elves who were doing their best to console her. Their small hands reached out to offer tissues, murmur words of comfort, but Luna's face was buried in her hands, her body trembling with quiet sobs.
Her heart clenched at the sight. She approached, her usual confident stride softened with genuine care as she settled down beside her friend. Without hesitation, she wrapped an arm around Luna, pulling her close.
"Luna, love, what happened?" she whispered, brushing a tear-streaked strand of hair from Luna's cheek. "Shh, I'm here now. Whatever it is, we'll handle it together."
Luna tried to speak but broke into sobs, her hands clutching her arm as though afraid to let go.
One of the house-elves, Bobsy, clambered up onto the bed and joined them, his eyes wide and somber. She gave him a comforting smile and a quick kiss on his wrinkled cheek. "Bobsy, darling," she said gently, "please, tell me what's going on. Why is she so upset?"
Bobsy looked down, wringing his hands as he sniffled. "Oh, Miss Pansy, it was terrible… Miss Ginny—she was here last night. She tried to hurt Master Theo!"
Her stomach dropped, and her grip tightened around Luna. "What do you mean? Ginny tried to hurt him? Why?"
Luna, her voice barely more than a whisper, took a shaky breath. "She barged in… it was so sudden. Theo and I were… making love. She just appeared, furious, and before we could react, she… she had a knife, Pansy. She went after Theo, screaming that he'd pay, that he deserved to suffer."
Her face darkened with shock and fury, her hand reflexively rubbing Luna's back as her friend trembled. "Merlin's sake… she actually came here, armed?"
Luna nodded, her eyes wide and glassy as she recounted the terrifying ordeal. "Theo managed to get away, but… but she wouldn't stop. She chased him across the room, yelling that she knew what he'd done."
Bobsy stepped forward, nodding grimly. "Yes, Miss Pansy, she said Master Theo was to blame, that he was responsible for… for Mr. Weasley's death."
Her heart pounded. The tangled emotions Red must have been harboring—the grief, the anger. It all made sense, but Ginny crossing that line? It was unthinkable.
"She thinks it's Theo's fault," Luna murmured, her voice breaking. "She knows he's the one who created the Fiendfyre that… that led to Ron's death. She blames him, Draco, and Blaise for it all."
Her mind raced as she took in the gravity of Luna's words. It was true that their husbands had been involved in that violent moment, but she also knew each of them had taken actions they believed necessary to protect those they loved. Ron's death had left a scar, but Ginny… Pansy could hardly believe she'd taken matters into her own hands.
"It's not just Theo," Luna murmured, her voice tight with a painful mix of guilt and frustration. "She resents all of us. She can't understand why we stayed. Why we chose… this life. She hates that we're in love with them, even after everything."
Pansy bit her lip, feeling a rush of both anger and helplessness. "To be fair, the boys did… well, they did kill Ron and Lavender," she said softly, acknowledging the harsh truth. It was the kind of unspoken acknowledgment that kept the threads of their world stitched together but made everything so complicated.
Luna's eyes flashed with anger, her voice raising an octave as she replied. "I know. But she tried to kill my husband! My husband!" She clenched her fists, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks, as if finally releasing the full weight of what had happened.
She immediately pulled her into a tight hug, stroking Luna's hair as her own anger simmered beneath the surface. "Shh, darling, it's okay. You're safe now. Tell me what happened… what did she do exactly?"
Luna took a shaky breath, her body still trembling as she leaned against her. "I called Hermione and Draco for help when Ginny barged in. She was out of her mind, screaming and brandishing that knife. They managed to disarm her, thank Merlin, but… I was… oh, Pansy…" Luna buried her face in her hands, her voice breaking. "I was naked, in front of everyone. It was humiliating. Hermione had to help me get dressed, and we came upstairs to get me away from everything. I just felt so… exposed. Like I didn't belong in my own skin."
"Oh, sweetheart," she murmured, holding Luna even closer. "I'm so sorry. You didn't deserve that—none of this is your fault. And don't worry about them seeing you. I promise you, no one looked at you. And even if they did, they didn't see you."
"But Draco and Blaise?" Luna whispered, her face flushed with embarrassment. "I know they were busy with Ginny, but… it was mortifying, Pansy. I just… I wish I could disappear."
She brushed a tear from Luna's cheek, speaking with a fierce protectiveness in her voice. "Listen to me, love. You have nothing to feel embarrassed about. You're stronger than anyone else I know, and you handled yourself with so much grace—even when things spiraled out of control. You are allowed to feel exposed and hurt, but you don't have to feel ashamed. Draco and Blaise were concerned with Ginny; you know how protective they are of you and Theo. That's all they saw—your well-being."
Luna sighed, her hand still trembling as she clutched her arm. "I don't know. Everything feels so fractured. We were all once so close, and now… now it's like I don't even know Ginny anymore. And she's carrying a child—Blaise's child. She can't be this reckless, not now. We need an intervention or something. This has gone too far."
~~~~~~
The Parkinson sunroom, a gilded cage of opulence, was suffocating in silence. The only sound was the relentless ticking of the grandfather clock, a metronome of impending doom. Pansy was a statue of icy composure, her black cocktail dress a stark contrast to the storm brewing beneath the surface.
"Well," she began, her voice a brittle whisper, "let's get this over with. Care to explain why everyone gathered at our house for this intervention?" Her gaze, cold and calculating, swept the room, daring anyone to challenge her.
A hush fell over the room as everyone exchanged nervous glances. It was clear that this was no ordinary
"We have a huge rift in the family," Luna said, her voice as serene as ever. The words hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the casual tone. "I invited everyone here to neutral territory so that we can have a normal conversation."
Neville's eyes darted around the room, a mixture of concern and apprehension etched on his face. "Go on," he urged, his voice barely a whisper.
Luna continued, her voice steady and firm. "We need to address the escalating tension. Ginny, please explain your actions towards Theo. Blaise, we need clarity on your decision to confide everything in her. And Draco, I expect a justification for involving everyone in this turmoil."
Ginny shifted uncomfortably, her eyes darting to Blaise before she spoke. "I needed to know the truth. I couldn't live with the lies anymore."
Blaise sighed deeply. "I confided in her because she deserved to know the truth. I hadn't anticipated such a drastic escalation."
Draco leaned back, his expression a mask of frustration and defiance. "I owe no explanations to anyone."
Ginny's voice, a raw and trembling cry, pierced the air. "How can you possibly deny killing my brother?"
Hermione sat in tense silence, her composure a barely held facade. Little Lysander, slept peacefully in her lap. Beside her, Lady Lemongrass, offered silent companionship and a calming influence.
"Baby girl, listen," Blaise began gently. "I know you idolise your brother. He was your brother. But it's important to understand that others perceive him differently."
Ginny stared at her husband, her expression a mixture of disbelief and anger.
"Ask Saint Potter why they haven't spoken in years," Theo said flatly. "Ask him what he's done."
She finally found her voice. "Ginny, Ron was not perfect," she began carefully. "He wasn't always the best partner."
Ginny's voice was a raw scream. "So, that's why you had them kill him?"
"Your brother was abusive," she retorted, her voice rising. "Not just to me. Get off your high horse, Ginny."
"How can you be the only one of our group who doesn't understand the concept of found family?" she continued, her voice laced with disbelief. "How can you be pregnant and actively resent your husband? What happened to you, Ginny?" Her voice trailed off as she retreated into herself.
"What did he do?" Ginny whispered, her voice barely audible.
Draco scooted closer, his hand reaching out for hers in silent support.
"He... he was abusive, Ginny," she explained, her voice trembling. "He did unspeakable things to me and his other girlfriends. Have you never noticed Lavender's bruises? The constant clumsiness? I beg to differ."
Ginny sobbed uncontrollably, her body wracked with silent sobs. The weight of the revelations was crushing. She stumbled to her feet, her vision blurred with tears, and fled the room, the heavy front door slamming shut behind her.
She sat there silently, her mind racing. The weight of what she'd just heard was immense. A heavy silence settled between all of them, broken only by the soft ticking of the clock.
"I wondered for a long time, what my life could've been if instead of coping, I'd been healing from the things that weren't my fault ," she finally murmured, her voice barely audible. "And then I found Draco. The true Draco."
"Darling, this is not your fault, it never was," he comforted her, his voice gentle and reassuring. He reached out to take her hand, offering silent support. "You are brave, my love. Stronger than anyone in this room."
~~~~~~
The dining room felt suffocating, the flickering candlelight casting long, wavering shadows that only seemed to deepen the tension. Neville sat rigidly at the head of the table, his fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against the polished wood. The air between them was thick with unspoken words, with betrayal, with the simmering rage he was barely keeping contained. His jaw was set tight, his usually soft eyes cold and unreadable.
When she finally entered, Pansy could feel the weight of his gaze on her like a brand. She knew this moment was inevitable, but that didn't make it any easier. She had faced enemies with wands drawn, had stood in the darkest of rooms without fear, but this—this was different. The dread curled inside her stomach, making her steps heavier, her breath uneven. She wanted to speak first, to take control of the situation before he could tear into her, but his voice sliced through the silence before she had the chance.
"Well, that was a shit show," he said, voice clipped, sharp as a knife.
"Oh, it was," she forced out, trying for casual, as if she wasn't already unraveling inside. Her hands twitched at her sides, but she didn't dare fold her arms—it would be too defensive, too much like she was shielding herself from the inevitable.
His stare hardened, his gaze cutting straight through her façade. "So… you knew?" he asked, his tone deceptively quiet. It was almost worse than if he had yelled.
She hesitated for a split second too long. "I… I did." Her voice came out smaller than she wanted, almost fragile.
The words hung in the air, suffocating, pulling them both under. The silence that followed wasn't passive—it was thick, charged, dangerous. His entire body tensed, the muscles in his forearms flexing as his hands curled into fists against the table. The warmth she had always found in his presence was gone, replaced by something unfamiliar, something that made her feel like she was losing him by the second.
"So you decided to keep information from me again, Pansy?" His voice was low, even, but the restrained fury beneath it was undeniable.
Her throat went dry. The way he said her name—her real name, not the affectionate nickname—sent a cold shiver through her. "Nevie, I didn't—"
"Enough," he cut her off, the finality in his tone like a slap. He didn't raise his voice, but somehow that was worse. Shouting, she could handle. This… this quiet, simmering anger, this measured, cutting disappointment—this was unbearable. "Get out of my sight."
The breath she'd been holding came out in a sharp exhale. "Ne—Nevie," she tried again, the name slipping from her lips before she could stop it, before she could remind herself that he was beyond softening now.
His eyes flickered shut for the briefest moment, like the sound of it hurt him, like it made this moment all the more unbearable. But when he looked at her again, whatever tenderness had been there was gone.
"Parky," he said, the nickname laced with something close to contempt. Not affection. Not love. Just an accusation. "Do not talk to me right now."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Her heart twisted violently in her chest. The chasm between them, once small enough to bridge with a touch, with a well-placed joke or a knowing look, now felt insurmountable. She wanted to fix it, to make him see that she had never meant to hurt him, that she had been trying to protect him in her own flawed way. But the words tangled in her throat, refusing to come.
Instead, she took a slow, tentative step forward, her hand lifting slightly, instinctively reaching for him—to bridge the distance, to find him through the wreckage of this fight.
But he stood, pushing back from the table with a force that sent the chair scraping violently against the floor. He didn't even look at her. Didn't wait for her to finish whatever she had been about to say.
Without another word, he turned and walked away.
And for the first time in their marriage, Pansy felt like she had truly lost him.
As the door clicked shut behind him, the silence that followed was crushing, suffocating in its finality. The weight of her choices settled onto her shoulders, heavier than ever before, pressing down with an unbearable force. She sank into the nearest chair, her hands trembling as she stared blankly at the empty space he had left behind. She had always prided herself on her ability to keep secrets, to navigate the murky waters of alliances and betrayals with practiced ease. But this—this was different.
This was Neville.
The one person she never wanted to hurt. The one person who had given her unwavering loyalty, who had loved her despite the sharp edges, despite the darkness she carried. And now, she had betrayed the very trust he had placed in her, not with malice, but with silence.
Minutes passed, though it felt like hours. She sat there, motionless, replaying every word, every look, dissecting the confrontation piece by piece, searching for the moment she could have done something differently. If she had just said more, or perhaps less. If she had swallowed her pride, if she had let him in sooner. The realization cut deep, sharp and unrelenting—her secrecy, her obsession with control, had finally come back to haunt her in the most personal, most devastating way.
Slowly, she rose from the chair, her limbs heavy with exhaustion, with sorrow, with regret that curled around her ribs and squeezed tight. The house felt emptier than it ever had before, as if his absence had hollowed out the walls, leaving behind nothing but ghosts of what they had built together. She made her way upstairs, to the quiet solitude of their bedroom, but the moment she stepped inside, the space felt foreign. The bed, once a place of comfort, of shared laughter, of whispered confessions in the dark, now felt cold, too vast without him beside her.
She curled onto her side, staring at the emptiness where he should have been, where he had always been. And for the first time, a true, paralyzing fear settled deep in her bones—the fear that she had finally pushed him too far. That this time, there would be no easy way back.
But she couldn't accept that.
With a deep, steadying breath, she forced herself up, her resolve hardening even as her heart pounded in her chest. She wouldn't let it end like this—not in silence, not with distance growing between them like an open wound. She knew him too well, knew exactly where he would retreat when he needed to think, to breathe, to put space between himself and his emotions.
His study.
The thought of facing him, of seeing the disappointment in his eyes again, sent a shiver of dread through her. But she had never been one to back down from a fight, especially not when it mattered most. And tonight, nothing mattered more than this.
With each step down the dimly lit corridor, the air grew heavier, thick with unspoken words and a tension that made her chest ache. But she pressed forward, pushing through the uncertainty, because no matter how much it terrified her, she needed him to hear her out. Even if he didn't want to.
As she pushed open the door, she found him seated in his usual armchair, his broad frame silhouetted by the dim candlelight, a glass of firewhiskey balanced between his fingers. He was staring out the window, his expression carved from stone, the muscles in his jaw tight with barely restrained emotion. The room was thick with tension, the kind that made the air feel charged, heavy, almost suffocating.
She swallowed hard, hesitating for only a moment before stepping inside, her voice soft but laced with resolve. "My love…"
His eyes flicked toward her, slow and calculating, and the cold weight of them sent a shiver down her spine. "What is it that you want, Pansy?" he asked, his voice measured, clipped. There was no warmth in it.
The way he said her name—so formal, so distant—made her heart lurch. She had expected anger, maybe even frustration, but this? This felt like punishment. Still, she forced herself to hold her ground. "To apologize," she admitted, voice quieter now. "To tell you that I'm sorry for keeping things from you."
His fingers tightened around his glass, and she saw the way his knuckles whitened, the flicker of something wounded behind his eyes. "For breaking my heart?" he asked, his voice low, dangerous. "Over and over again?"
The words hit like a dagger, clean and precise, slicing through her composure. She winced, unable to meet his gaze for a second. She had braced herself for his anger, but the way he said it, like an undeniable truth, made her stomach twist painfully. "Nevie, please," she whispered, stepping closer. "Don't do this. I know I fucked up, but I'm here, and I'm apologizing. Sincerely."
For a long, excruciating moment, he just looked at her, searching her face as if trying to decide whether she was worth believing. Then, with a sharp exhale, he placed his glass down with deliberate care and leaned back in his chair, his shoulders losing only the slightest fraction of their tension. "Come here, Parkinson."
The surname felt like a slap. A deliberate choice. A reminder of the distance between them. Still, she didn't hesitate. Summoning a boldness she didn't fully feel, she crossed the room, stopping in front of him. She hesitated for only a second before sinking onto his lap, careful, measured, as if testing whether he'd push her away.
But he didn't.
He let her settle against him, though his body remained taut with unresolved frustration. His hands rested on her thighs, his touch familiar but distant, not quite pulling her in but not pushing her away either. When she reached up to trace her fingers along the collar of his shirt, he caught her wrist in a firm grip.
"Look at me," he ordered, his voice quiet, but there was an edge to it, something sharp and unyielding.
She obeyed, lifting her gaze to his, and the intensity in his eyes nearly knocked the breath from her lungs. "Why are you doing this to me?" he murmured, his fingers still wrapped around her wrist, his thumb grazing her pulse point. "What are you so afraid of?"
Her throat tightened. "I'm scared…" she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "Scared that you're going to leave me."
His grip on her wrist loosened, his fingers sliding down to intertwine with hers, but the weight of his gaze didn't lessen. "And you think keeping secrets from me, shutting me out… that's supposed to help?" His tone was still edged with frustration, but there was something else beneath it now—something raw, something vulnerable.
She shook her head, her breath unsteady. "No, it doesn't. I know that now. It's just…" She let out a shaky exhale. "Habit. My whole life has been about control, about making sure no one sees the weak parts of me. But you… you see them anyway."
His thumb brushed idly over her knuckles, as if absorbing her words. "And that terrifies you," he stated rather than asked.
She nodded, her fingers tightening around his. "Because if you really see me—see all the ugly parts, all the things I've done—I don't know if you'll still want me."
The silence between them stretched, thick with unsaid things. Then, slowly, she leaned forward, pressing her lips to the curve of his jaw, trailing soft, lingering kisses along the stubble there. It was an apology, a plea, a quiet surrender. She kissed him again, lower this time, her breath warm against his skin. She felt him tense beneath her touch, his restraint palpable, his control hanging by a thread.
"Pansy," he warned, his voice rough, but he didn't stop her.
She traced her tongue along the sensitive skin below his ear, her hands sliding up his chest, feeling the steady, measured rise and fall of his breaths. "Let me make it up to you," she whispered, her lips grazing over his.
He exhaled harshly, his grip tightening on her waist. "Get on your knees," he murmured, his tone both a command and a test, an unspoken challenge laced with something deeper, something he wasn't ready to name.
She didn't hesitate. Slipping off his lap, she knelt between his thighs, looking up at him with dark, pleading eyes. He reached down, his fingers threading into her hair, tilting her chin up until she was forced to hold his gaze.
"I'm going to make you work for this apology," he whispered, his thumb brushing against her lower lip. "For the next few minutes, you don't get to think. You don't get to control. You're mine."
Her breath hitched, anticipation igniting every nerve in her body. "Yes," she breathed, her voice a quiet, desperate surrender. "Please."
A slow, satisfied smirk touched his lips before he unbuckled his belt, watching the way her pupils dilated, the way she licked her lips in anticipation.
"This," he murmured as he guided himself between her lips, "is for keeping secrets from me." He moved slowly at first, deliberate and teasing, enjoying the sight of her submitting to him. His grip in her hair tightened, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her who was in control.
Her lips parted willingly, her tongue tracing over him as she hollowed her cheeks, taking him deeper. He groaned, his head falling back for a moment before he looked down at her again, eyes burning with satisfaction. "Look at me," he ordered, watching as she obeyed, her gaze locked onto his. "Let me see how sorry you are."
She moaned around him, the vibration making his grip tighten involuntarily. His control was slipping, and he knew it, but fuck, she was beautiful like this—on her knees for him, her mascara smudging, her lips stretched around him, giving him everything.
His thrusts grew rougher, more demanding, and she took it, took all of him, her hands resting on his thighs as she let him use her mouth however he wanted. And then, with a sharp inhale, his release hit him, his body tensing as he spilled himself down her throat. He held her there, savoring the moment before he finally let her pull back, watching as she swallowed, as she wiped the corner of her lips with the back of her hand, her eyes still locked onto his.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, slowly, he reached for her, offering his hand.
She took it without hesitation, letting him pull her up. He brushed a thumb over her swollen lips, his expression unreadable.
"What do good girls say?" he asked, his voice softer now.
She swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you, Sir."
A slow, approving smile played at his lips as he pulled her close, a silent promise lingering in his gaze that he was far from finished with her. Yet beneath the warmth of his touch, beneath the lingering scent of firewhiskey and regret in the air, there was something else—something heavier. The unspoken weight of everything left unsaid, of wounds still raw beneath the surface.
His fingers trailed over her arms, slow and deliberate, a stark contrast to the quiet storm in his eyes. "Good girl," he murmured, his voice low, controlled. "Now apologize."
Her breath hitched. Not because of the command—she was no stranger to the way he claimed her, to the push and pull of power between them—but because of what lay beneath it. This wasn't just dominance; this wasn't just play. This was real. This was about trust. This was about everything she had fractured between them.
Taking a deep breath, she adjusted herself on his lap, her hands pressing lightly against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her palms. "I would like to sincerely apologize," she began, her voice measured but laced with emotion. "I wasn't fully transparent with you, and I realize now how much that must have hurt you."
She could see the way his jaw tightened at her words, the way his fingers flexed slightly against her skin, as if restraining the storm still raging beneath the surface.
"I knew it before it happened," she continued, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "I knew before the brunch where Lavender was there, before all the chaos erupted. The plan was in place for months, and I should have told you."
His expression darkened, his green eyes burning into her with something sharp, something she couldn't quite name. "So you kept it from me for a year?" His voice was quiet, but the restrained anger in it sent a chill down her spine.
"I did," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I thought I was protecting you. I thought I was protecting us. I didn't want to add to your burdens, especially with everything that was happening at the time."
He exhaled harshly, shaking his head, disbelief mingling with something dangerously close to disappointment. "But you didn't trust me enough to share it." He let out a bitter chuckle, though there was no humor in it. "You thought you could carry this alone."
"I was scared," she confessed, her voice trembling slightly. "Scared of what you might think of me, scared of how it could change everything between us. I thought I could handle it on my own."
"Handle it?" he echoed, his grip tightening around her thighs. "This wasn't just about you, Pansy. This was about us. You don't get to decide which parts of our life I get to know about."
"I know," she whispered, her heart pounding in her chest. "I see that now. I should have had more faith in you, in us. I should have trusted you to support me. I'm so sorry for putting you through this."
His eyes searched hers, filled with something unspoken—something between fury and longing, between betrayal and love. "Apologies are just words unless you mean them," he said, his voice low, his grip steady on her waist. "How do I know you won't keep something from me again?"
She leaned forward, her lips barely grazing his, her breath mingling with his own. "Because I'll prove it to you," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I promise, Nevie, no more secrets. I want to be better—for you. For us."
Her words hung between them, heavy with sincerity. He studied her for a moment longer, the tension in his body radiating like a tightly wound coil.
He sighed, his breath shaky as he held her tightly. "Let's take it one step at a time. Just remember that you're not alone in this. We'll face everything together from now on."
She whispered, too afraid to say it out loud, "I'm scared... that someday, you might stop loving me."
He kissed her deeply, letting his touch speak before his words. Pulling back just enough to meet her gaze, he whispered, "You will never be unloved by me. You are too well tangled in my soul."
~~~~~~
She stood in front of the window, watching the evening light fade over the grounds of Parkinson Manor. Shadows lengthened across the gardens, their slow creep a reminder of how much time she had spent wrapped in secrecy and half-truths. And now, as she let herself breathe in the cool twilight air, she felt a weight settle on her chest—one she was determined to release once and for all.
She made a decision, more concrete than any resolution she'd ever considered. Her life needed to change. She had spent too long weaving intricate webs of secrets, too long testing his patience, balancing on the razor's edge of trust and deceit. It had become a part of her, a habit so deeply ingrained she hadn't even realized its full extent until she saw the look in his eyes earlier, when he confronted her.
The hurt, the betrayal, the weight of every hidden truth sat between them, a silent force she could no longer ignore.
She would never lie to him again.
Finally that was the truth .
She repeated the vow to herself, like a prayer, feeling its promise settle into her bones. She would tell him everything, no matter how painful. It was the only way forward, the only way to keep the love they'd built from crumbling under the weight of secrets. She closed her eyes, imagining his face—his warm smile, the way his eyes softened when he looked at her. That face deserved honesty, loyalty, and respect. She would no longer taint it with deceit.
Her past was a twisted maze of dark corners and shadows, choices made for survival, alliances forged out of necessity, and secrets that felt as vital as the air she breathed. But her past didn't have to be her future. Not anymore. She would find a way to free herself from its chains, to become a woman deserving of his love and trust. For too long, she had let herself believe that a heart like his would forgive anything—that he would always understand her reasons and her fears. But he was not invincible, and she knew now that his patience had limits.
The resolve built inside her, layer by layer, until it felt like steel in her chest.
She would sit down with him, lay every truth bare, and face the consequences. It would be painful, and she knew it might take time for him to trust her again, but she was prepared to work for it, to rebuild from the ground up if that's what it took. She wanted a life untainted by lies—a life of real love, trust, and transparency.
Stepping away from the window, she took a deep breath, gathering her courage, feeling it rise like a tide. She wouldn't just change for him, but for herself, for the woman she wanted to become, for the future she wanted to embrace—one where love and honesty were her true foundations.
The journey would be difficult, but she was ready for it.
~~~~~~
She waited in the dimly lit hallway, hearing the familiar creak of the front door as it opened. Neville stepped inside, his face softening as he spotted her waiting for him. After a long day, he was visibly tired, but he managed a warm smile, walking over and gently taking her hand.
"Parky," he murmured, brushing his lips against her knuckles. She could feel her heart pound in response—there was something so steady and reassuring about him, something she had leaned on without realizing how deeply she needed it. And tonight, she was ready to open up to him in a way she never had before.
"Nevie," she began, her voice a little unsteady. She took a breath, gathering her thoughts and her courage. "I... I've been thinking a lot lately. I know we've talked about this. I want to have a baby. And... I want to start now."
He looked at her carefully, a mix of surprise and thoughtfulness. They had discussed children before, always in abstract terms, like something for a distant future. But the look in her eyes told him this wasn't just a casual conversation—it was something she'd been thinking about, perhaps even agonizing over.
"We already talked about this," he replied gently, his hand finding its way to her cheek, his thumb brushing softly against her skin. "We'll have a baby, in time. But there's something we need to work on first."
Her brows furrowed, a pang of worry pricking her heart. "What do you mean?" she asked, searching his face.
He paused, choosing his words with care, his expression sincere but unwavering. "Our dynamic needs to change, my love. I need you to be completely honest with me—no more secrets, no half-truths. You have to trust me enough to share everything, even the things you think I won't understand or the things you worry will hurt me. Especially those things."
Her breath caught as she processed his words, feeling a mix of vulnerability and resolve. She'd been carrying so much, hiding behind the fear of disappointing him, of losing his respect. But he was right—if they were to build a future together, one that included a child, they couldn't do it on a foundation of hidden fears and buried truths.
"I promise, Nevie. I do," she said, her voice almost a whisper, but the promise in her words unmistakable. "I want this as much as you do—our future, our family. I'll be open, I'll be honest. Even if it's hard."
He nodded, his gaze filled with understanding, his arms drawing her close. She melted against him, feeling the warmth of his embrace, the security of his presence.
They stood there for a long moment, wrapped in each other, allowing the weight of the conversation to settle, each aware of the changes to come. The road ahead wouldn't be easy—she knew there would be times she'd struggle to keep her promise, to resist her instinct to hide or evade. But she was ready to try, with him by her side, willing to build a love stronger than anything she'd ever known.
"I'll hold you to that promise," he murmured softly, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Because if we're going to bring a child into this world, I want them to grow up in a home built on trust. And I want them to have parents who can show them what real love and honesty look like."
She nodded, her heart swelling with emotion. She knew she was ready, not only to have a child but to be the kind of partner Neville deserved. And in that moment, she felt a sense of purpose stronger than any she had ever known, a determination to be better—for him, for herself, and for the life they would one day create together.
Notes:
"my darling you will never be unloved by me you are too well tangled in my soul"― Atticus