William didn’t wait. Seeing the recognition in her eyes, the “White Knight” instinct that had driven him for six seasons took over. He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Victoria, desperate to bridge the gap of the “Silent Winter” with a single embrace.
“You’re back,” he sobbed, burying his face in her neck. “I knew you were in there.”
But instead of melting into him, Victoria went rigid.
The memory flood wasn’t just the good moments–the storm delivery or the vows. It was everything. She remembered the “Golden Cage” of the penthouse. She remembered him firing Cynthia Sharpe in a rage. She remembered the suffocating intensity of his love that burned everything around it to keep her safe. And she remembered the man who had just locked the gates and called the police on her only days ago.
“No!” Victoria gasped, shoving him back with shocking force.
William stumbled, stunned. “Victoria?”
“I remember how tight you hold on,” she whispered, her chest heaving as she backed away. The “Duality” of her memory had revealed a hard truth: William Croft loved her, but his love was a heavy, crushing weight. She looked at him not as a savior, but as the man whose obsession had once nearly destroyed them both.