God she’s still beautiful, Aidan exhaled the breath he had been holding at the initial sight of her. She was gorgeous, more mature, but like a painting of old, one depicting the goddess Aphrodite in all of her splendor. Life had suited her, and a cynical part of himself thought it better that he hadn’t been there, that she had flourished without him there.
Looking down at mother and daughter, he pieced it together, and knew that any chance at Andy and he being together would never come to be. She’d obviously moved on, had a life, a better one, while he was tied down to some princess, who spoke his beloved’s language but could never measure up to the woman before him. Shame washed over him at that, that he had…he had let her go, selfishly, with the promise of forever on the tip of his tongue and a cowards blood in his veins. She deserved better.
“Andy…” He thanked the heavens that he was in civilian clothes, that the suits, ties, endless designer looks that haunted his closet had been traded for a light jumper and jeans. Clearing his throat, he straightened up, an old habit he thought he had been broken from in his school days. “You look…” beautiful, gorgeous “good.” A cheap word that could never mean the million and one thoughts running through the irishman’s mind. Keeping watch of the mother daughter duo, he knew he couldn’t stay here, couldn’t intrude upon her life and fuck it up with a few words.
For the first time since the accident, he felt like he needed a drink, to forget seeing her, to forget this. She’d taken his soul, his broken parts, and his heart all in one. He was half a man, at his own hands, his own actions, and he couldn’t let her see it all. Their story was over, well before this day on a London street, well before that little girl in her arms. Maybe if he’d been stronger, maybe if he hadn’t run, maybe if he had come clean or had been a man, a genuine man, they wouldn’t be here. They’d be blissfully happy, tucked away in Ireland, maybe with a little girl or boy of their own, the next O’Ceallaigh’s to take the thrown. Maybe he would have tossed his crown into the ocean where it belonged, actually used his knowledge, opened a garage and made his own fate. Or maybe he’d be in Buckingham, still engaged to another, with fond memories of parting with a woman, closure healing his open wounds. But his life was full of too many maybes, too many mistakes.
“She wandered, into the street that is. An intelligent, lass, you have there. Couldn’t have left her there.” Hands in his pockets, if only his tutors could see him now. “She’s alright, shaken, but alright. You should probably focus on her, that is.” Still just a coward, even when faced with an opportunity, with endless possibilities. “I…have to go.” He needed to go, to leave now so he could forget this, focus on his bride to be, try to give her whatever he had left of himself and pray she didn’t know the difference.
Probably for the first time in her life Andromeda had no words. All those years ago when he banished from her life in a blink of an eye she had convinced herself that it was for the best, that somethings just really weren't meant to be, that an unfinished story was better than one with a painful ending. But it had all been lies, empty words to push herself to keep on with her life. At the time she had been faced with a hard choice; either keep fantasizing about a man that she probably wasn't going to see ever again, let it broke her and made her life revolve around it or learn the lesson, clean her wounds and move on with her life. But then that stick had turned pink and there really wasn't much room to choose anymore. As much as she would have liked to dwell on her pain there were more important things to look forward to and she refused to be one of those moms who could barely get out of bed.
In many ways than one Astrid had been her guiding light, filling even her most somber moments with laugh and love. And yet she still checked the news daily in case an unidentified body had fitted his description been found or in case his photo was in the covers because he had done some heroic deed. It was sick and it was pathetic because deep down she had always known nothing bad had happened to him. That her life wasn't a book with a complicated plot in which the lovers were separated by some twisted trick played on them by fate. Those things didn't happen in real life. He wasn't going to show on her doorstep one day with a bouquet of flowers and a perfectly rational and impossibly good reason for all those years of absence. One she wouldn't have more remedy than to accept and forgive him. And yet here he was standing in front of her like a single day had passed by him. He still managed to take her breath away.
"No," she heard herself say but wasn't sure where the strength to pronounce the words had come from or how her voice sounded so damn hurt. "You're not leaving again without giving me an explanation. For fu-fork's sake, Aidan! I thought you were dead!" It wasn't either the place nor the time to have this conversation. Not with Astrid safely tucked in her arms, carefully listening to every word. But he had gone away once and what were the chances of bumping into him again? Now many. Ideal or not it was going to happen. They were going to have this conversation and then keep going with their lives. She would marry that prince and do what was best for the country that had seen her grow up. He owed her that much. "I deserve to know." The hand that wasn't supporting Astrid reached for his arm, gripping his wrist in a soft yet firm grasp.
