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“Explain?” He scoffed, pacing away before rounding back on her. “Do you think there is anything you could say that would undo this? That would make me believe you meant anything you have said these past days?”

His anger, sharp as a blade, sliced through her, and Harriet flinched.

“It was never about the painting,” she said desperately. “Not truly.”

“Then why lie?” His voice was raw now, stripped of the patience he had once offered her so freely. “Why deceive me, Harriet? Have you no faith in me at all?”

Tears burned at the backs of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

“I was afraid,” she admitted. “Afraid that if I told you the truth, you would take it from me. And I could not bear to lose it.”

“Not even for me?” His voice was quieter now, but there was no mistaking the devastation beneath the question.

Harriet swallowed past the ache in her throat.

“I have lost everything before,” she whispered. “This was all I had left.”

Sebastian’s lips pressed into a hard line.

“No,” he said, shaking his head once. “You had me.”

And then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode toward the door.

Panic seized her, the significance of her choices crashing down upon her like an unforgiving tide.

“Sebastian, wait—Once we made our arrangement, I planned to give it to you on Christmas Day.”

Sebastian stopped, his hand hovering over the doorknob. His shoulders were rigid, the taut lines of his back betraying the effort it took to contain his temper.

Slowly, he turned, his expression unreadable. “Planned to?” he echoed.

Harriet nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes. That was always my intention. I only wanted …” She hesitated, her hands gripping the robe as though it were the only thing keeping her from unraveling. “I only wanted a little more time.”

His mouth twisted. “Time for what?”

“For us,” she whispered.

Silence hung between them, heavy with things unspoken. The dying embers in the grate crackled, casting flickering shadows across the room.

Sebastian exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair, his movements tight with frustration. “For pity’s sake, Harriet,” he ground out. “You speak of time as if it were something we could steal back. But time was stolen from us long ago. By you. And now, once again, you have chosen secrets over trust.”

She flinched at the accusation, her pulse hammering against her ribs. “I was going to tell you,” she insisted. “I never meant to deceive you, not like this.”

Sebastian’s laugh was low and humorless. “Not like this? Then how, exactly?” He gestured toward the painting. “You let me believe it was gone. You lied to my face. How am I supposed to believe anything you say now?”

Harriet’s fingers curled into fists, nails pressing into her palms. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“And yet, you have.”

His voice was quiet, but there was something far worse than anger in his tone now. Disillusionment. Disappointment.

Her chest ached to hear it. “You think I do not regret it? That I do not hate myself for not telling you the truth sooner? You cannot imagine what it has been like … to feel as though every choice I make only drives you further away.”

Sebastian shook his head. “No, Harriet. That was your own doing.” His voice was hoarse with emotion, and his hands flexed at his sides. “All I ever wanted from you was honesty.”

A lump formed in her throat.

“I thought if I gave you the painting too soon,” she confessed, “you would leave. I thought once you had it, there would be nothing left to hold you here.”