The gut-wrenching agony he'd braced himself for never came. Instead, an eerie calm settled over his chest, as if every last scrap of the affection he'd carried for Anastasia all these years had simply vanished into thin air at that exact moment.
Even he couldn't help but wonder, had he ever truly loved her, all that time ago?
What of the hand-carved wooden trinkets he'd chipped away at for hours, or the elaborate surprises he'd poured endless thought into, just to see her smile? What did any of that count for?
Could it be that this whole time, it had never been love at all—just his own stubborn, twisted obsession?
Leopold found the whole thing absurd, almost laughable. How could anyone fail to tell obsession apart from real, genuine love? He'd always prided himself on being sharp, on s
