The Mistress Who Ran Away With The Twins-Chapter 179: Apology and Regret

The silence that followed her words was heavy—so heavy it felt physical, like something pressing against my chest, stealing the air from my lungs one breath at a time.

An apology.

From Rosanna Margareth Hariston.

The words themselves weren’t dramatic. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t reach for my hands or beg. She simply said them—quietly and carefully, as if afraid that saying them too loudly might shatter whatever fragile balance was holding us both in place.

Still, my body reacted before my mind could.

My shoulders stiffened. My jaw tightened. Something deep in my chest clenched not in anger, not in relief, but in disbelief.

This—this was something I had imagined before. Not often. Not openly. Only in moments I never admitted to anyone. Moments when I was exhausted, worn thin by years of swallowing things I wasn’t allowed to say. In those moments, a quiet, foolish thought would surface.

What if one day she admits it?

I always pushed it away.

Because even then, I knew better.

In those imagined versions, Rosanna Hariston was never like this. She was always composed. She stood tall with her chin lifted, her expression sharp and unreadable. If she spoke, it was to defend herself—not to apologize. She offered reasons, not remorse. Justifications dressed up as concern. Cruelty softened by civility.

Never this.

Never hesitant.

Never standing in front of me with her shoulders pulled too tight, her hands clasped together like she didn’t quite know where to put them. Like she was afraid that if she let them fall naturally, they might betray her and start shaking.

I didn’t respond right away.

Not because I didn’t hear her—but because I was afraid of what might come out if I did.

I had spent years stitching myself together in silence. Years learning how to keep my voice steady, my expression neutral, my pain tucked neatly away where it wouldn’t inconvenience anyone. I didn’t trust that opening my mouth now wouldn’t undo all of that in a single breath.

So I stayed quiet.

Rosanna shifted slightly, then stilled again, as if she’d caught herself moving too much. Her eyes flicked briefly to the floor before lifting back to my face, cautious and searching, like someone trying to read a language they no longer remembered.

"I know an apology doesn’t erase the past," she said carefully. "And I know I don’t have the right to ask for your forgiveness."

Her voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t commanding. It carried none of the authority that once made my stomach knot and my chest tighten with dread. Instead, it sounded measured. Almost fragile.

"I just—" She paused, inhaled. "I didn’t want to leave things unsaid. Not anymore."

I studied her in silence.

She looked older than I remembered—not dramatically, not enough that someone unfamiliar with her would comment on it. But I could see it. The tightness around her mouth, the restraint in her posture, like someone who had learned too late the cost of speaking with certainty.

"You don’t have to say anything," she added quickly. "I understand if you don’t want to—"

"I don’t." I interrupted softly.

The words came out calm and controlled.

She stopped immediately.

"I don’t know what to say," I clarified, meeting her gaze. "Not because I have nothing to say. But because saying it won’t change anything."

Her lips pressed together. After a moment, she nodded. "That’s fair. I understand."

Another silence settled between us.

Rosanna inhaled slowly. "May I sit?" she asked.

The question startled me more than her apology had.

I hesitated, then nodded. "If you want."

We moved to the small seating area outside the office. She waited for me to sit first before lowering herself into the chair across from me, leaving a careful distance between us.

Once, she would have taken up space without thinking twice. Once, she filled rooms simply by existing in them.

Now, she seemed careful not to crowd me.

"I won’t pretend I didn’t dislike you," Rosanna said quietly. "That would be dishonest."

I met her gaze, my expression neutral. "No," I said. "You didn’t pretend."

A flicker of something—pain, perhaps crossed her face.

"I judged you," she continued. "From the beginning. Your background. Your family or lack of one. I told myself I was being a good mother, that I only wanted to protect Rome. I believed everything I did was for his own good. That he needed someone suitable—someone on his level. Not someone I thought would become his weakness."

The word weakness lingered between us, cold and unpleasant.

"And when Ingrid came into the picture," she went on, "she fit everything I believed a woman beside my son should be. She came from a good family. She was predictable. Easy to accept because she listened."

I let out a slow breath through my nose. "And I wasn’t."

"No," she admitted. "You weren’t."

Her honesty didn’t feel like progress. It felt like confirmation of something I had always known.

"I thought separating you from Rome was the right thing to do," Rosanna said. "I told myself you were temporary. That he would get over you."

My fingers curled slightly against my palm.

"But he didn’t," she added. "And instead of accepting that, I doubled down."

There it was.

I remembered the dinners where I was spoken over or ignored entirely. The conversations that stopped the moment I entered the room. The polite smiles that never reached her eyes. The subtle comments about my clothes, my manners, my future—how I would never amount to anything. The way she pretended to be kind when Rome was around, only to turn cruel the moment he was gone.

Those were things I would never forget.

"You called me an obstacle." I said quietly. "Do you remember that?"

She didn’t hesitate. "Yes."

"You told him I would drag him down," I continued. "That loving me was a mistake."

Her hands tightened together. "I did."

"And when he didn’t listen," I said, my voice steady, "you tried to make me leave on my own."

Her eyes closed briefly.

I remembered the locked doors. The room I wasn’t allowed to leave. The certainty that no one would help me—because no one believed I deserved it. And Rome, not even noticing any of it.

"You told me," I went on, "that if I loved him, I would disappear. That staying made me selfish."

"I was wrong," she said hoarsely.

I gave a small, humorless smile. "You were determined to remove me from Rome’s life. And now that I’m no longer there—what is the purpose of your apology?"

Silence returned.

"I know I made things worse," Rosanna said after a moment. "I let Ingrid do whatever she wanted. I let her make you more miserable even after you left Rome. I didn’t know everything she did—but I still allowed it."

"But you knew enough." I replied.

"Yes," she admitted. "I did."

Her gaze dropped to the table. "And I did nothing."

The admission didn’t bring relief. It didn’t feel like justice. It felt late.

"I survived," I said simply. "Not because of anything you did. But despite it." I paused, then added quietly, "Are you apologizing now because you learned that the woman you once despised is connected to the Lincolm family? Because you don’t want misunderstandings between the Haristons and the Lincolms?"

I saw disbelief flash across her face—as if my words had struck something uncomfortably true. Still, she nodded, swallowing hard.

"I’m sorry," she said. "I’m being honest. I only found out earlier that you are Sylvester Lincolm’s sister. But that isn’t the reason I’m apologizing. I’m not asking you to forget. Or forgive me."

I looked at her. "Then what are you asking for?"

She hesitated. Truly hesitated.

"I don’t know," she said. "Maybe... closure."

I exhaled quietly. "That’s usually something people ask for when they’re ready to move on."

Her eyes lifted. "And you?"

"I already did."

That seemed to strike deeper than any accusation.

"I built my life without you," I continued. "Without your approval. I learned how to live with what was done to me."

"And I don’t want to reopen wounds just to close them neatly for someone else’s peace of mind."

Rosanna’s shoulders slumped. "I understand."

Maybe she did. Maybe she didn’t.

It didn’t matter anymore.

"You’re here now," I said, standing. "Because things changed."

She didn’t deny it.

"If nothing had changed," I added, "you would still believe I was the problem."

She looked away. "Perhaps."

That answer was enough.

"I won’t accept your apology," I said calmly.

Her face paled—but she nodded.

"This isn’t revenge," I continued. "It’s honesty. What you did doesn’t disappear just because you regret it now."

She bowed her head slightly. "Thank you... for being honest and thank you for your time."

When I turned back toward the office, my steps were steady.

"Mom what happened?"

Cairo looked up at me, searching my face.

"It’s okay." I told him softly.

And it was.

Some apologies come too late.

And some wounds, once healed, are not meant to be reopened—no matter how sincere the regret standing in front of you might be.