“The last words you spoke to me five years ago,” she said stiffly. “Do you remember them?” “Yes,” he said, pressing his fingers to his eyes. As clearly as if they had just been spoken. Leave London. Should you ever return, I will make you regret it. “Yes.” “I do regret it,” she said, and her shoulders sank, defeated. “I do regret it. So I suppose you’ve won after all.” His head dropped back against the door as his eyes burned with helpless tears. He’d won nothing—nothing at all. They had both lost.
