Brightest witch of her age, they called her. Brightest witch indeed, if she’d been unable to see what was right in front of her. The sight of those knickers on his dresser on that night had been like a knife in her chest, one she should have been braced for, one she should’ve known was coming. In that moment, her years of self-preservation had kicked in, and she went into flight mode. Waving her wand through the hazy vision of her tear-filled eyes, she’d packed all her own belongings—without the books he’d gifted her—and departed without another glance, unable to face him or ask for any explanation. She couldn’t bear to leave her walls down for another second. Of course he’d grown tired of her, she had thought. Of course she wouldn’t be enough to satisfy him, to fill his life in the way he filled hers. Of course he had sought comfort in the arms of another witch, one who more easily fit into his high-society life and the upbringing she’d foolishly thought he’d left behind. She had ignored all the ways they were incompatible, choosing to focus only on the ways he brightened her life, and now his own dissatisfaction had reared its head and left her in the dust.