Chapter 159

Hestia watched him spiral in silence. Men were always the same—trampling what they had when they held it, then resorting to theatrical self-punishment when it was gone, expecting forgiveness in return.

He wasn't slapping himself because he ached for what she'd suffered. He simply couldn't bear the loss. This was self-pity dressed up as remorse.

Pathetic.

"Had enough?" Hestia's cold voice cut through his performance.

Aaron's hand froze. He looked up at her through a mask of tears, hope flickering in his eyes.

"Then get lost." Not an ounce of mercy. "You're an eyesore."

She turned, ready to walk toward William.

"Hestia."

Another ruined voice came from the side of the staircase.

Dean stepped out of the shadows.

He wore a thin windbreaker, his face chalk-white, his frame so gaunt he was barely recognizable. Something in his eyes had died.

Hestia paused. Quite the reunion tonight.

Dean stopped two steps away. He didn't drop to his knees like Aaron. He simply bent at the waist—a slow, deep, ninety-degree bow.

"I'm sorry." His voice was quiet, threaded with bone-deep despair. "I know you don't care. But I had to say it."

Hestia looked at the two men before her—one kneeling, one bowed.

The irony was almost beautiful.

"You two really are the men Clio handpicked." A sharp, derisive laugh. "She has excellent taste in useful idiots."

Dean straightened, staring at her blankly.

"Do you actually think you're innocent? That you were just victims of Clio's lies?" Hestia's gaze was a scalpel, stripping away every excuse without mercy. "You're not innocent at all. You and Clio are the same breed."

Both men went rigid.

"Selfish. Blind. Only willing to believe the fantasy in your own heads." Hestia spoke at a measured pace, but every word drew blood. "You didn't fall in love with Clio, and you didn't fall in love with me. You fell in love with a persona that fed your savior complex and your ego. So all Clio had to do was shed a few tears, and you'd gladly become her blade—aimed straight at me."

"You weren't manipulated for years because Clio was clever. It was because you were stupid. And because you were cruel."

Hestia withdrew her gaze, no longer willing to waste a glance on either of them. "Drop the phony remorse act and stop bothering me."

She walked toward William.

"Hestia." Dean's voice rose behind her—low and hollow, like something dragged up from the underworld. "You're right. I am a fool."

Hestia didn't turn around.

"I'll make it right for you." Dean stared at her retreating back, his voice edged with something extreme and absolute. "I'll make her pay. I owe you that."

Hestia's step faltered for a fraction of a second. She heard the death wish buried in his words.

A man whose entire belief system had collapsed was capable of anything. She sensed Dean might go to the extreme—hunt Clio down and take them both out.

But that had nothing to do with her.

Hestia didn't pause again. She walked straight to William's side.

William's arm settled naturally around her waist, drawing her close.

He didn't spare a single glance at the two wrecked men behind them. Shielding Hestia and Cecil, he guided them through the restaurant doors.

The glass doors closed, sealing out the cold wind and the two shattered figures along with it.

---

Inside, the lighting was warm and golden, a cello playing something low and unhurried.

The air carried traces of pine and the aroma of fine cuisine.

A server led them to the VIP window table.

William pulled out Hestia's chair. Only after she was seated did he take his own place across from her.

After they ordered, the server brought warm water. William tested the temperature of the glass, found it just right, and slid it toward Hestia.

"Hands still cold?" His voice was low and gentle—a different man entirely from the one who'd stood guard outside like carved ice.

"Not anymore." Hestia lifted the glass and took a sip. The warmth slid down her throat and into her stomach, chasing away the chill she'd carried in from outside.

The appetizers and mains arrived quickly.

William didn't touch his own plate first. He reached for Hestia's dish, picked up a knife and fork, and cut her beef Wellington into neat, even pieces. His movements were precise and elegant. When he finished, he set the plate back in front of her.

The whole thing was so natural it looked like something he'd done a thousand times.

Cecil, perched in the seat beside them, chewed on the end of his fork and looked from William to Hestia and back again.

The boy swung his dangling legs and announced: "Dad, you're nicer to Ms. Sharp than you are to me."

William was cutting his own steak. He didn't look up. "Got a problem with that?"

"Nope." Cecil propped his chin on his hands, his big eyes bouncing between them. "I just think you two look like you're already married."

Hestia's fork paused mid-motion. Heat crept up the tips of her ears.

Cecil, oblivious to the shift in the adults' atmosphere, barreled on with enthusiasm. "Dad, when are you gonna marry Ms. Sharp? I wanna be the ring bearer! Tobby in my class did it for his aunt's wedding last month—he wore a little suit and looked SO cool. I want a little suit too!"

William set down his knife and fork. He picked up his napkin, dabbed the corner of his mouth, and lifted his gaze.

Those deep, steady eyes crossed the table and landed squarely on Hestia's face.

He didn't hush his son's innocent chatter. Instead, he watched her with quiet intensity—as if waiting for an answer.

Hestia met William's gaze.

His eyes were open, tender, and unmistakably possessive.

Her heart skipped a beat.

After the wreckage of her marriage to Aaron, she'd believed she would never willingly step into another intimate relationship again.

But beside William, she'd found something she'd never known before—steadiness and genuine respect.

He caught her when she fell. He gave her freedom. He stood between her and every storm.

She had fallen for him. There was no denying it.

She wanted a life with this man—and with this sweet, wonderful child.

A soft curve touched Hestia's lips.

She didn't look away from William. Instead, she turned to Cecil.

"A little suit—of course." Her voice was warm, laced with a quiet smile. "But if you're going to be the ring bearer, a suit alone won't cut it. You'll need a bow tie. Do you want black or burgundy?"

Cecil's eyes lit up like sparklers. He clapped his hands. "Burgundy! Burgundy is the coolest!"

William watched the woman across from him, her profile softened by candlelight. He leaned back in his chair, and a deep, unhurried smile reached his eyes.