Only not for the reasons he’d believed.
The ache in his chest crept outwards.
He had been so desperate for proof that he came first, that he was everything to her, and now—guttingly—it turned out that he had been. Thanks to his obsessive need to know that, he had failed to see the truth staring him in the face.
Instead—ironically—he had let himself be distracted by the very things he had accused her of preferring.
As far as he’d been concerned she had Lamington and the estate, so he’d framed her commitment to him in terms of what she was prepared to give up.
But he hadn’t understood.
His mouth twisted. It hadn’t even crossed his mind that, for Nia, Lamington wasn’t just a big house filled with beautiful objects. That she cared about the ongoing life of the estate and the people who lived and worked on it.
Remembering Allan’s text message, he felt his chest tighten. They cared about her too.
And it wasn’t just a matter of duty. She had a vision for Lamington—although, unlike his film career, they had never got around to discussing that.
No wonder she had broken up with him.
Except that hadn’t been the reason either.
His fingers tightened against the worktop.
Nor had she simply given in to her parents’ demands.
Instead she had thought about their relationship and their dreams, and about him and his dreams. And, knowing how much he loved her, knowing him better than he knew himself, she had correctly guessed that he would do anything to make her happy—including running the estate with her, even if it made him miserable.
And she hadn’t been able even to think about that happening, much less make it happen.
His shoulders tensed.
Would it have changed anything if they had talked it through properly, like adults?
Maybe.
If Nia had been more forthright, and he hadn’t been always pushing people to put him above everything and everyone else. In other words, only if they had both been different people.
Shivering, he glanced around the darkened kitchen, the chill and the darkness reminding him of another kitchen.
A lifetime ago.
Almost a third of his life had passed since he had last stepped foot in his grandparents’ house. In that time so many other memories had faded, but that one remained crisp and unfiltered.
He could see the kitchen as if he was standing in it now. The faded, scrubbed table. His grandmother’s enamel pans. The ashtrays piled high with the brown-stained stubs of his grandfather’s cigarettes.
They hadn’t been bad people. They had taken him in. Given him a bed and food and clothes, a place in their home.
But it had been a grudging place. They had taken him in because there had been nowhere else for him to go.
Only Nia—briefly—and then Tom and Diane had ever made him feel wanted and accepted for himself.
And now that was gone—ruined in a day.
‘Farlan?’
He jerked round. Nia was standing in the doorway. She was naked.
He felt as though he’d been kicked in the solar plexus.