Astrid wandered down an overgrown path into a deeper part of the woods, passing long creepers dangling from the limbs of towering rain trees and old graves covered in moss. Birds cackled loudly in the trees overhead, and small butterflies darted in and out of gigantic ferns. Finally she could breathe again. She felt totally at ease in these woods—they were almost the same as the woods she had spent her childhood playing in at Tyersall Park. At a clearing where rays of sunlight filtered through the verdant foliage, Astrid came upon a small gravestone nestled by the sprawling roots of a large banyan tree. There was a distinctive sculpture of a cherubic angel crouched on top of the tomb, its huge wings unfurled and arching all the way over its head. A tiny oval sepiatoned portrait of an earnest-looking little boy dressed in a white suit was centered behind glass on the headstone. He would have been around Cassian’s age when he died. There was something so tragic and yet beautiful about that gravestone, and Astrid was reminded of the graves at Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris.

On one of their frequent trips back when they were living in London during their university days, Charlie had shown her the tomb of Abelard and Héloïse. When they finally arrived at the grand tomb, they found it strewn with love letters, and Charlie explained: “Abelard was a great philosopher in the twelfth century who was hired to teach Héloïse, a young noble woman who was the niece of Notre Dame’s Canon Fulbert. They fell in love and had an affair, which led to Héloïse becoming pregnant and the two of them getting married in secret. When Héloïse’s uncle discovered the affair, he had Abelard castrated and Héloïse sent to a nunnery. They could never see each other again, but they sent each other passionate letters for the rest of their lives, letters that have become among the most famous in history. The bones of the lovers were finally reunited here in 1817, and ever since, lovers from all over the world have been leaving letters on this tomb.”

“Ohh—how romantic!” Astrid sighed. “Will you promise you’ll never stop sending me love letters?”

Charlie kissed her hands and declared, “I promise I will never stop sending you letters of love, Astrid. Until my dying day.”

As Astrid stood alone in the middle of the forest recalling his words, it was as if she could suddenly hear the trees speaking to her. In the deepest hollows of bark, in the rustling of leaves, she could hear them whisper, He did it out of love, he did it out of love. And suddenly it all became so clear. Charlie had bought Michael’s company to help save her marriage. He had overpaid by hundreds of millions because he wanted Michael to have a fortune of his own, to give him a chance to overcome his feelings of inadequacy. It was an act of pure, unselfish love. Everything Charlie had done three years ago began to make sense now—advising her to wait at least a year before agreeing to a divorce, telling her, I have a feeling Michael could have a change of heart. Michael did have a change of heart, but not in the way that anyone could have anticipated. He had transformed into a completely unrecognizable man. The modest, unassuming soldier had become a brash, maniacal billionaire. And he wanted her to become a different type of wife to match him. Astrid realized how much she had struggled to change for Michael, and how much she no longer wanted to. What she truly wanted, what she had always wanted but failed to realize until this moment, was someone who loved her just the way she was. Someone like Charlie. Oh, Charlie. In another lifetime they could have been happy together. If only she hadn’t broken his heart the first time. If only she had been stronger and stood up to her parents the first time. If only he wasn’t married with two beautiful kids of his own. If only.