The Ashbourne Bride

Jason 

He didn't hate weddings, not in general. But that one? He hated what it took from him. Watching Adele marry his brother would have shattered him. So, he didn't stay. He couldn't.

The night before the ceremony, Jason slipped away from Ashbourne, shrouded in fog, saying nothing, packing lightly, and bearing only regret. No goodbyes. No explanations. Just silence and distance. He rode for hours, then days, until the road underneath became unfamiliar and everything recognizable felt far enough behind him. But the ache lingered. It didn't fade; it settled in—like a bruise too deep to heal.

Now, over a week later, he painted as if possessed. His studio in Paris was bright and airy, with windows wide open to a sky dotted with unfamiliar stars. Paint splattered his hands, wrists, and the edge of his jaw. His shirt hung open, buttons forgotten, clinging to him with sweat and turpentine. He didn't care. All that mattered was the canvas—landscapes, faceless figures—but always, always, her. Adele's hands, slender and caught mid-motion. Her eyes were vast oceans he could never reach. She haunted his work, his thoughts, the spaces between dreams. He remembered their summers in the orchard, the debates over books, and how she once dared him to steal a kiss—how close he'd come. He recalled her quiet question, filled with longing: "Jason, you'll never belong to anyone, will you?" Now, she belonged to his brother, and he had never felt more alone.

A Memory - The Studio, A Week Before the Wedding

The smell hit her first: oil paint, turpentine, and something deeper—Jason himself. He stood with his back to her, shirt unbuttoned, streaks of cobalt and ochre marking his chest and sleeves. Light poured in from the skylight, highlighting the defined contours of his back as he moved, brush in hand, lost in whichever world he was creating. She lingered a moment before breaking the silence.

"Jason."

He turned slowly, quietly. His gaze settled on her and lingered.

"Adele." His voice was rough.

"You left dinner early."

"I needed time to think," Jason replied.

She stepped inside, taking in the view. The studio looked just as she remembered it—messy, vibrant, alive.

"I used to think this place was magic," she murmured. "Like stepping into someone's dream."

"And now?" he asked.

She met his eyes directly. "Now I realize it was yours."

He stared, trying to grasp her meaning. She took a step closer.

"Do you ever wonder if there was a moment when everything could have changed?" she asked.

"Every damn day," Jason responded.

She let out a soft, bitter laugh.

"Funny. You never spoke up."

"You didn't either."

A pause hung in the air. Her voice softened.

"You were always good at painting your feelings, Jason. I was always better at hiding mine."

He swallowed hard.

"If I had asked you to stop the wedding," she whispered, "would you have?"

The question tore him apart.

"I… I don't know," he lied.

Suddenly, her expression shifted. Her smile vanished. She nodded once, tears pooling in her eyes.

"Then I suppose I do know." She turned to leave.

He moved too late. "Adele—" But she was already gone. That was the last time he saw her, the last time she looked at him with that quiet plea in her eyes.

He had taken his grief and fled to the far corners of the world. No letter. No farewell. Just a man with paint under his fingernails and too many regrets crammed into his suitcase. The one that got away wasn't just a woman; she was the only life he had ever truly wanted.