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Victoria.

William woke up with her name on his lips and fell asleep with her image in his mind.

Victoria.

His love for her was responsible for his current state.

When he’d escaped the brothel for the last time with Neville in tow, he’d promised himself he would never be imprisoned again. He’d decided he would do anything to avoid this fate. But then, he hadn’t known he’d meet her.

After Neville’s death, he had promised himself that he’d be self-sufficient. That he’d never depend on anyone, so that when they inevitably left, betrayed him, or died, he would not feel that pit in his soul that he felt now.

He had promised himself many things, and he had broken every single promise. All in her name. And he hadn’t regretted a thing. Until now.

He closed his eyes and saw that alcove of roses in the Roth gardens, felt the scent of flowers, the light breeze against his skin. That fateful day flashed before his eyes.

The day he’d married Victoria had been the single most wonderful day of his life and the most devastating at the same time.

That day was his one and only regret. If he could redo any day over again, it would be that one. Not because of the wedding—he wouldn’t change that for the world—but for what happened after.

They had just married, and instead of taking her to bed right away, as he should have done, they sat in the garden in each other’s embrace, enjoying the cool autumn air. She had been telling him all about St. Petersburg and how he was going to love it once they went there. With the enthusiasm of a child, she’d told him how she was looking forward to showing him the Winter Palace. And how she couldn’t wait to share her home country with him and introduce him to her beloved sister.

It had felt nice getting lost in the fantasy, even if William had known it would never come true. He hadn’t dared interrupt her; her dreams were a joy to be a part of.

And then the real world came crashing in. Lavinia and Victoria’s uncle, the Marquess of Roth, had barged in on their intimate moment, bewildered at what they saw.

Furious to realize Victoria and William had just secretly married.

William remembered Victoria’s expression of disbelief when her uncle had told her that William was a bastard and a thief as if it was yesterday. He remembered the hope and trust shining in her eyes as she’d waited for him to deny it. To refute those ugly words.

She had trusted him. Believed in him. Loved him.

And when he couldn’t, she whispered in a broken, barely audible voice that still haunted his darkest moments, “How could you?” Her trust and love had been snuffed out in an instant, replaced by devastation at his betrayal.

A slew of mistakes had followed in the wake of this devastation, a myriad of regrets.

William regretted dueling with her uncle for her honor; he regretted stabbing him in the shoulder and fleeing like a coward. Perhaps, if he’d explained himself to her, refused the duel, and instead spent that time winning her back, things would have gone differently.

But he still remembered the hurt in her eyes, the shock, the distaste that stated clearly that as a bastard, he wasn’t worthy of her.

And now, two years later, after an infinite number of attempts to get her back, he was back where he started. Still not worthy of her.

Perhaps his capture and inevitable death were a blessing in disguise. He would finally be able to give Victoria what she’d wanted all along—freedom from him.

And he would get the ending he deserved.

Footsteps sounded somewhere in the corridor and got louder.

William sat up straight.

Were guards coming for him two days early? Would he hang today without ever seeing Victoria again? Without hearing his name on her lips one more time?

The hope of seeing her again was the only thing that had kept him from crumbling completely. She was his only hope, his only salvation.

He didn’t believe in God, in heaven, in absolution.

But he did believe in her.