Chapter 219: Is It Too Late
Ivan ran straight through Lydia’s room, his heart racing so fast it felt like it might break through his chest. His hands trembled as he pushed open the door, terrified of what he might find. The thought of losing her, of finding her gone, had haunted him since the Senate session.
Relief washed over him when his eyes finally met the sight of her. She was there, lying quietly on her bed, her face turned slightly toward the firelight. She was asleep.
Ivan stood frozen for a moment, his breath unsteady. He had prepared himself for the worst, but now that he saw her safe, lying in front of him, he felt his chest ache in a different way. Slowly, he stepped closer, every sound of his boots against the floor heavy with emotion.
When he reached her side, his heart broke again. Her face was wet with tears. Even in her sleep, she had been crying. He bent down without a word and with a gentleness that almost hurt him, he wiped the tears away with his fingers, careful not to wake her.
His throat tightened as he looked at her pale skin, her long lashes wet, her lips slightly parted as she breathed softly. He leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead. It was the smallest, softest kiss, but it carried all the weight of his pain.
"I’m very sorry," he whispered, his voice shaking. His eyes were red, filling with tears. "I’m very sorry, Lydia. All you did was love me... and I hurt you." His words were broken, almost inaudible, but his soul poured through them.
A tear slipped down his cheek as he continued, his lips trembling. "You don’t have to worry. I will never let her hurt you. I swear. I’ll do anything to protect you."
He took her hand and kissed it softly, almost reverently. She stirred slightly in her sleep, her head moving on the pillow, but she didn’t wake. For a brief moment, Ivan froze, fearing she would open her eyes and see him. But she didn’t. She just breathed quietly again, and he let out a shaky sigh of relief.
He turned his head toward the fireplace, where the flames burned low and steady. The warmth touched the room, but it didn’t touch his heart. In his hand was a small parcel. He had carried it tightly all the way here. His fingers shook as he opened it.
Inside was just a single page. A page from a ledger, nothing more, but its meaning was heavy. It was proof of Alexander’s deal with the Venograd army. Ivan’s eyes darkened as he stared at it. His lips moved in a whisper.
"Ruslan must have given it to her majesty," he muttered bitterly.
He gripped the paper so hard it almost tore, then squeezed it in his fist and threw it into the fire. He stood there watching as the flames ate the page, curling it, blackening it, reducing it to nothing but ashes. He took the empty envelope and tossed it in as well. Soon, all of it was gone.
But the fire didn’t quiet his mind. He turned back to Lydia, his chest tight. He had thought of leaving after destroying the evidence, but when his eyes fell on her again, he couldn’t move. His body refused. His heart refused.
He wanted to stay.
No—he needed to stay.
Even if his head screamed at him to go, his soul clung to her. Slowly, he removed his coat, laid it on the chair, and folded his sleeves. He walked back to the bed and without thinking twice, lay down next to her. He didn’t dare touch her too much, afraid to wake her, but his hand found its way to her hair. He caressed it gently, his fingers running through the soft curls.
His eyes never left her face. He was afraid—afraid that maybe at night, the rain would fall and she would cry again. Afraid that maybe she would wake up from nightmares, and he wouldn’t be there. Afraid of a thousand things he couldn’t even name.
So he stayed. He stayed because he couldn’t bear the thought of her feeling alone, even in her sleep.
He kept caressing her hair, his touch light, almost trembling. His eyes were heavy with regret. The fire flickered, casting shadows across the room, but all he saw was her. All he felt was the weight of his mistakes pressing down on his chest.
At last, his exhaustion overcame him. His hand stilled against her hair. His breathing slowed. His eyes closed. And before he realized it, Ivan fell asleep. Right there, in her arms.
---
Meanwhile, in another room of the palace, Olga paced back and forth, her steps restless, her hands clenching and unclenching. She couldn’t sit still. The fire in her own fireplace burned brightly, but it gave her no comfort.
"What if I made a mistake giving him the evidence?" she whispered to herself, her eyes sharp with fear.
She turned toward the flames, her hands tightening into fists. "What if he tells her? What if he tells Lydia everything?"
Her stomach churned at the thought. Her heart beat fast, as if the fire itself was mocking her. Then she shook her head sharply, convincing herself again.
"No. He won’t. He can’t. She hates him already. Telling her won’t fix anything. He doesn’t have that choice." Her lips curled as she muttered to herself, her eyes narrowing. "He won’t tell her. Not now. Not ever."
She stared into the fire, her face lit by the orange glow. But no matter how much she tried to reassure herself, unease stayed with her.
---
Back in Lydia’s room, the fire burned lower. Ivan shifted slightly in his sleep, still lying close to her. His face looked calmer now, softer, as if resting beside her was the only place his heart could find peace.
The night stretched on. Lydia’s breathing stayed even. Ivan’s hand remained close, his fingers tangled lightly in her hair. They were two people lying side by side, bound not by words but by silence, by guilt, by love, and by pain.
---
At the Andreyevna estate, Alexander sat alone in his study. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the ticking of the clock on his wall. Papers lay scattered across his desk, but he wasn’t reading them. His eyes stared blankly ahead, his mind lost.
He kept thinking about one thing—the night he had asked Ivan to divorce Lydia.
The memory wouldn’t leave him. It came back over and over, striking him like a blade. He remembered the look in Ivan’s eyes, the weight in his voice, the way the silence between them had fallen after those words.
His hand gripped the arm of his chair as if holding himself still. He knew he had crossed a line that night. A line he could never uncross.
The fire in his own fireplace burned low, shadows playing against the walls, but Alexander barely noticed. His thoughts were trapped in the past, in that single moment when he had chosen ambition and fear over family, over love, over everything that should have mattered.
The night was long for him too. And though he sat surrounded by books, papers, and riches, he had never felt more alone.