That familiar tickle flared deep in his chest. He forced it back down with a sharp intake of breath.
Not now.
But when was the right "now"? He didn't know.
Maybe after the medical evaluation, when they had a concrete surgical plan and he had some certainty he could walk beside her a little longer.
Or maybe that day would never come.
At four in the afternoon, Rhys pulled himself together and knocked on the master bedroom door.
"Clara, Shawn booked the place for five. Should we start getting ready?"
There was no response from inside. He stood frozen, not daring to retreat, but too afraid to enter.
About ten minutes later, the door opened.
Clara had already changed. Her long hair was tied back effortlessly, her makeup clean and understated. Her only jewelry was a pair of elegant pearl earrings.
Stunning, yet undeniably distant.
Rhys's gaze lingered on her face for a moment.
She looked right back at him.
Honestly, her anger had largely dissipated throughout the afternoon.
She didn't want to throw a temper tantrum, and she wasn't the type to cause a scene over trivial things.
Truth be told, she wasn't even fully angry at Rhys.
She was mostly angry at herself.
She was mad at herself because she knew exactly how this man's mind worked—how different it was from a normal person's. She had already deduced exactly why he was refusing to propose based on what Noah and Daniel had said. Yet, she had still foolishly allowed herself to hope.
To hope that this time, he would be different.
She had hoped that when she handed him the perfect opportunity, he would seize it and simply ask, *Should we get married again?*
Instead, he had thought about it in total seriousness and told her, *No plans.*
She felt helpless, but her heart ached for him all the same.
She had spent the last few hours battling herself.
One side reasoned that it didn't matter—she could just be the one to propose.
The other side argued that it absolutely did matter. If she had to make even this decision for him, it meant his fundamental flaws hadn't changed at all.
The mental tug-of-war ended in a stalemate, leaving her exhausted and bruised.
Clara let out a breath.


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