#changes #garden #freedom #ownership
The dinner had sunk into a lull—the sharp clinking of glasses giving way to the low murmur of calculated conversation. Candlelight flickered from iron sconces fixed to the ancient stone walls, casting long shadows that danced like spirits summoned from the cathedral’s forgotten days. High above, ribbed vaults arched like the spine of some slumbering beast, and stained-glass windows filtered moonlight into strange, holy colors—crimson, gold, violet. The place still smelled faintly of incense and old dust, as though it remembered the prayers of a century ago and resented their silence now.Ayra stood near one of the darkened alcoves, her fingers resting on the stem of a half-finished glass of wine she had no intention of drinking. Her heels ached. Her dress, sleek and black, clung like a second skin. Her throat felt raw from smiling too much at people she didn’t trust.And then—“Darling, would you spare a moment for an old woman?”Ayra turned to find herself looking into the face of L
Lucian didn’t tell her about Lisbeth.He sat across from Ayra in the softly lit lounge, the garden’s scent still clinging faintly to her as she sipped a steaming cup of tea. Her hair was loosely braided, her shoulders relaxed from the morning’s quiet. And yet, as he looked at her, all he could think about was how Lisbeth had vanished—abruptly, cleanly, just like Pedro.Tension coiled beneath his skin, but he masked it with a sip of wine.“We need to talk,” he said abruptly.Ayra tensed immediately. That phrase never meant anything good in this house.He didn’t sit. He stayed standing, watching her like she was something caged—and dangerous. Or maybe fragile. She wasn’t sure which he saw.“There’s a dinner tomorrow night,” he said smoothly. “High-ranking members of the Consortium - mostly the extended Cyrus family - will be attending. You’ll be there.”Ayra blinked. For a moment, she thought she misheard. “I’ll be where?”“At a dinner. Tomorrow night.”Her fingers tightened slightly on
It was a dusty afternoon, and a gentle breeze stirred through the greenhouse vents as she knelt beside the far bed, digging her fingers into warm earth. Something about the repetitive motion calmed her.Far across the estate, Lucian stood before the tall windows of his study, the same sunlight casting long slashes of gold across the room. Papers lay untouched on his desk. A whiskey glass sat half-full, forgotten beside a folder stamped with confidential seals.But Lucian wasn’t looking at any of it.He was staring at the garden path.His expression was unreadable. Not the cold sharp mask he wore in meetings. Not the subtle smirk he used to disarm rivals. This was something heavier.Ayra.He watched her through the glass, watching how her hair glinted in the sun, how she bent low to inspect a flower’s stem, how she brushed dirt from her fingers and pushed her sleeves back. She was free there in a way he didn’t quite understand. And he hated that he noticed. Hated that he found himself r
The garden had quickly become a place where silence turned soft, where tension dissolved into something gentler—something nearly peaceful.It started with breakfast.Lucian had never joined her before. For weeks, Ayra had eaten in the eastern wing’s solarium, a place soaked in morning light and perfumed with citrus trees. The table was always set. A guard always stationed at the door. She would sit with her tea, her fruit, her silence.Then one morning, he was there.Seated already, sipping dark coffee, poring over an old dossier. He looked up when she entered, his gaze unreadable."You’re late," he said. Not coldly. Not mockingly. Just… speaking.Ayra raised an eyebrow but took her seat across from him. She said nothing.They ate in silence.But the next day, he was there again. And the next.Eventually, they spoke—little things. The weather. A passing comment about the guards. A rare joke from Lucian that left her blinking, then chuckling softly. And he would smirk, looking away like
A hairpin might work, she thought, fingers going to her braid. She untangled a clip, twisted it into shape, and began fiddling with the lock. Her movements were precise—muscle memory from when she'd once been desperate enough to learn how to escape.The lock clicked halfway—"I could’ve just given you the key."Her head snapped up.Lucian stood in the shadow of a pillar, arms crossed. The late sun painted him in gold and crimson, casting harsh lines across his jaw. His voice was calm, but she could sense the tension lurking beneath it.Ayra rose slowly, brushing her skirt smooth. "I didn’t know you were back."He stepped closer, eyeing the half-jammed lock, then her makeshift pick. "Apparently, you didn’t know I locked that for a reason."Her brows furrowed. "Is it dangerous?"He glanced toward the greenhouse. "Not in the way you’re thinking."She followed his gaze. The gardenias had begun to shift gently in the breeze, catching the light. Their whiteness seemed almost ethereal. Ayra s
Ayra woke to the scent of citrus and sunlight.It took her a moment to register the difference. The sheets were softer. The bed was wider. The room—too still, too quiet—was not the one she’d fallen asleep in.Her eyes darted across unfamiliar surroundings: pale cream walls trimmed in gold, long velvet curtains fluttering in the morning breeze, and an open balcony that revealed an expansive sea view. A single vase of white orchids sat on a marble-topped table nearby. No machines. No flickering monitors. No hum of a generator or distant yelling of soldiers.This was not the medical tent.She sat up too quickly, her head pounding in response. A nurse—young, silent, efficient—appeared almost instantly from the side door and offered her water."You are safe," the girl said softly, as if trying not to spook her. "Mr. Lucian brought you here last night. This is his private coastal villa. You’re under his protection now."His villa?Ayra drank, the cool water soothing her throat but not her tu