Too Late: The Don Begs Forgiveness

Harlow POV

For days, I existed as little more than a ghost.

I haunted the corridors only when strictly necessary, my body a map of aches and stinging cuts that flared with every step. The silence was my shield; if I remained quiet enough, perhaps they would finally forget I existed.

But Kaden never forgot his possessions.

He cornered me near the servant's entrance just as I was trying to slip out to the garden for a breath of air that didn't taste of stale fear.

He looked pristine. Tailored suit. Hair slicked back. The devil draped in designer wool.

He held something in his hand-a small, purple velvet pouch.

"Stop sulking, Harlow," he said, his voice lacking its usual venom, though the command was still there. "It's been a week."

I didn't answer. I just stared at his polished shoes, unable to meet his eyes.

He extended his hand, shoving the pouch toward me. "Here."

I looked at it. The scent hit me instantly-sweet, cloying, and suffocating.

Lavender.

"It reminded me of you," he said, almost awkwardly. "Soft. Quiet."

My stomach turned. My throat began to itch violently as the particulate drifted through the fabric. I didn't take it. instead, I stepped back, putting distance between myself and the toxin.

"I'm allergic to lavender, Kaden."

He froze. His hand hovered in the air, the rejected peace offering suddenly heavy between us.

"What?"

"I'm allergic," I repeated, my voice flat. "I have been for five years. If I touch that, my skin will blister. If I breathe too much of it, my throat closes."

He stared at me, his eyes searching my face, looking for a lie. But there was no lie to find-only the exhaustion of a woman shackled to a stranger.

He didn't know me. He knew my body. He knew my silence. But he didn't know me.

Slowly, the embarrassment in his eyes hardened into irritation. He lowered his hand, shoving the pouch into his pocket, his jaw clenching.

"Brittaney wants to ride," he said abruptly, punishing me with the change of subject. "She wants you to teach her."

I shook my head instinctively. "My hands are injured, Kaden. I can't hold the reins."

"You won't be riding," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You'll be instructing. Be at the stables in ten minutes."

He turned and walked away, the scent of lavender trailing behind him like a toxic cloud.

I went to the stables. I had no choice. The smell of hay and leather was usually comforting, grounding me, but today it felt like walking into a cage.

Then I saw her.

Brittaney descended the stone steps from the terrace, and my breath hitched in my throat.

She was wearing crimson. A vintage, velvet riding habit with gold buttons.

It wasn't just any habit. It was the heirloom Mrs. Barnes had gifted me on my wedding day-the one reserved for the Matriarch of the family.

It had been tailored for my frame. On Brittaney, the fabric strained across the chest, transforming elegance into something cheap and ill-fitting.

She twirled, a riding crop in her hand. "Does it fit?" she asked, batting her eyelashes at Kaden. "I found it in the back of the closet. It was gathering dust."

Kaden looked at her. He didn't see the insult to his family's tradition. He didn't see the theft. He just saw the red.

"You look... vibrant," he said.

We walked to the paddock. The stable master brought out Obsidian, a massive black stallion.

"He's spirited today," the master warned, struggling to hold the beast's head.

"I want that one," Brittaney pointed, her finger acting as a command. "He matches Kaden's suit."

I stepped forward. "That horse is too strong for a beginner," I said quietly. "Take the mare."

Brittaney sneered. "I'm not a child, Harlow. I can handle a horse."

She mounted Obsidian. She sat like a sack of grain, dead weight against the animal's spine, yanking on the bit. The horse pinned his ears back, a clear warning she was too arrogant to read.

"Show me what to do," she commanded.

I walked to the center of the ring. "Keep your heels down," I said. "Loosen the reins. You're hurting him."

She ignored me, kicking the horse's ribs. Obsidian danced sideways, agitated.

"This is boring," Brittaney complained. "Get up here with me. Show me how to make him run."

"That's dangerous," I said.

"Just do it!" Kaden barked from the fence. "Stop making everything difficult."

I sighed, the sound scraping against my raw throat.

I climbed up behind her. The saddle was cramped, leaving me no space to breathe. My bandaged hands struggled to grip the leather, pain shooting up my arms.

I reached around her to take the reins, trying to calm the animal. "Okay," I whispered to the horse. "Easy."

Brittaney leaned back against me. Her perfume was suffocating, masking the scent of the horse.

"You think you're so much better than me, don't you?" she whispered, her voice low and venomous.

I didn't answer. I just wanted this to be over.

Suddenly, she shifted her weight violently to the left. With a cruel smile, she dug her heel viciously into the horse's flank.

Obsidian reared, screaming in protest.

I tried to hold on, but my injured fingers had no strength. Brittaney threw herself sideways, launching her body off the saddle with theatrical force.

She screamed-a high, piercing sound that shattered the afternoon calm.

She slid off the horse, landing on the soft dirt. I managed to stay mounted, clamping my knees desperately to the stallion's sides to keep from being trampled.

"She tried to kill me!" Brittaney shrieked, rolling on the ground, clutching her arm. "She pushed me!"

I looked down at her. She was perfectly fine. There wasn't a scratch on her.

But Kaden was already vaulting over the fence. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury.

He didn't check if she was hurt. He just looked at me.

And for the first time, I saw death in his eyes.

"Get her down," he ordered the guards, his voice ice cold. "And bring the car."