The night air was cold, but Roselia Dukeforth felt nothing.
She stood still, leaning against the wall of Alexander's office, her brownish-golden eyes staring downward, as if trapped in the weight of memories.
Alexander Bluestone stood before her, his usual unreadable expression in place, his sapphire-blue eyes watching her closely. He wasn't impatient. He wasn't forcing her.
But he was waiting.
And so, she spoke.
"I feared my childhood."
Her voice was quiet—far too quiet for someone like her.
She never spoke about her past. She never allowed herself to remember it. But tonight… something inside her had shattered.
Alexander said nothing. He just watched. Listened.
"My parents… were cruel."
Her fingers clenched into fists.
"They hurt me, shaped me into something broken. And when I reached nineteen… they finally pushed me to the edge."
A deep inhale.
"I escaped. I ran from that house, from them, from everything."
Her breath trembled.
"I became an assassin. Because I wanted to survive. Because I wanted power. Because I never—" her voice wavered, breaking apart, "—never wanted to be weak again."
Silence.
Alexander's gaze did not waver.
And then, before she could process it—
He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.
A hug.
Not forceful. Not crushing. Just solid. Warm. Firm.
Roselia's body stiffened.
She hadn't been held like this before.
Not since she was a child. Not since before the cruelty, before the pain.
For a second, she thought about pulling away. She should. She always ran.
But she didn't.
Instead, something inside her crumbled.
Her walls collapsed.
And the tears came.
She broke apart into sobs, her body shaking as she clutched onto his coat, her fingers trembling. She cried against his chest, years of repressed agony spilling out in a way she had never allowed before.
Alexander didn't move.
He just held her.
No words. No unnecessary comfort.
Just presence.
Just silence.
Just understanding.
The world around them was still.
And for the first time in years—Roselia Dukeforth let herself be vulnerable.