Page 174 of Honor Requires

Unlike Langford, he had not sunk into defeat. There was a rigidity to his posture, a sharpness in his gaze that spoke of anger held tightly in check. He turned at the sound, his expression hardening further as he recognized his visitor.

“Vendicarsi,” he said, a touch of surprise coloring his tone.

Darcy stepped forward. “I am not he,” he replied.

Hargrave’s eyes narrowed.

“Come to gloat, have you?” he asked. “Sending me to Gardiner when you knew it would result in my ruin.”

Darcy did not answer the question. “Do you know me?” he said instead.

Hargrave studied him. There was only suspicion at first. Then, as with Langford, recognition came. It did not bring shock this time. It brought fury.

“Darcy,” he said, the name spoken with a bitterness that carried years of concealed intent. “So, the ghost walks.”

Darcy regarded him calmly.

“You should be dead,” Hargrave went on. “You were meant to be—” He broke off, his expression darkening further. “It was you,” he said, his tone shifting. “All of it. The shipments, the interference, the betrayal—”

Darcy remained still. The conversation was markedly similar to the one he had shared with Langford.

“You dare stand before me,” Hargrave said, his voice rising, “as though you are the injured party? You who meddled, who destroyed what I built—”

“You destroyed it yourself,” Darcy said.

Hargrave laughed harshly. “Do not pretend at virtue. You are no better than I. You schemed, you plotted—”

“No. I merely revealed that which you sought to hide.”

The words cut through the rising anger with a steadiness that did not falter.

Hargrave’s eyes flashed. “You think this is the end? You think you have won?”

Darcy held his gaze. “I think you will have ample time to consider the consequences of your actions.”

Hargrave’s lip curled. “I will not remain here. There are always means—always allies—”

“No.”

The simplicity of the word carried more impact than any argument.

Hargrave stared at him, the force of his anger faltering for the briefest instant.

“There is no escape this time. You will remain. And you will face what you have earned.”

Hargrave’s expression twisted. “You will regret this,” he said. “I swear it. If ever I am free—”

Darcy stepped closer. The distance between them closed, though the bars remained. “You will not be,” he said. There was no heat in the words. No anger. Only firm resolution. His hand tightened briefly at his side before he stilled it. He had learned too well what anger could make of a man—and he would not return to her as someone she could not respect.

Hargrave’s breath hitched.

Darcy straightened. “I wish you,” he said, his tone even, “the life you deserve.” He turned. The guard closed the door, muffling Hargrave’s tirade.

The corridors lay before him once more. Darcy walked them in silence, his thoughts no longer driven by urgency, but by a reflection that seemed to settle more deeply with each passing moment.

He had imagined this countless times. The confrontation and the reckoning. The moment when those who had wronged him would stand before him and know him.

He had expected more. Some great release. Instead, he felt peace. It was not the absence of anger that steadied him—but the certainty that he must remain worthy of her. It came slowly; his mind resisted it even now. Not the absence of memory, nor the erasure of what had been endured, but a stillness that came from the knowledge that it no longer held him.