Chapter 3: The Secret in the Soil

Elena’s POV

The West Wing bedroom suite feels exactly like a luxury prison cell. After a brief bath to wash the heavy wedding makeup from my face, the silence inside the large room starts to feel like a heavy cage. Every tiny click of the grandfather clock in the hallway echoes inside my brain like a ticking bomb.

I pull my personal phone out from my pocket, my thumb tapping the screen to check the private page for BrightPath Blooms, my secret online flower shop.

The screen lights up, displaying our tiny balance: thirty-five pounds.

Hot tears spill down my cheeks. My boutique is not making money fast enough to save me. My mind flashes back to yesterday’s emergency — the clinic demanding fifty thousand pounds to keep my grandmother’s machines running. My father paid the bill only to chain me into Alyssa’s gown. One slip of my voice, and the fraud collapses.

I need air. I need soil.

I dig through Alyssa’s bag until I find a plain knit sweater and trousers — the closest thing to my old work clothes. I remember Alexander’s rules: no East Wing, no private study. But the western grounds and greenhouse conservatory are mine.

I slip out of my room and walk through the quiet, cold hallways of the West Wing. Finally, I find a set of glass doors that lead outside into the freezing gray London fog. The clock on the wall reads four o'clock.

At the far end of the lawn stands the greenhouse — black iron and thousands of glass panels, a crystal palace against the gray sky. My heart beats faster. For a florist, this is a sanctuary.

I push the heavy iron door open, and a wave of warm, wet air hits my face right away. It smells deeply of damp dirt and beautiful blooming lilies. The greenhouse is full of life. Giant green plants fan out across the paths, vines climbing the high iron beams.

I walk deeper, running my fingers along soft leaves. For the first time since the altar, the knot in my stomach loosens. I find a wooden workbench near the back of the space. It is covered in old clay pots and cutting tools.

My professional training takes over completely. I pull up my sleeves, dig my bare hands straight into a bag of rich soil, and begin checking on a dying white flower that has been left to rot in a corner.

"The dirt is dry," I whisper. "It needs water. A clean trim so the roots can breathe."

“I didn’t know the Vance family taught their daughters to play in the mud.”

The voice slices through the air. I freeze, dirt clinging to my fingers. Slowly, I turn. 

Alexander Sterling stands at the path entrance, sleeves rolled up, scar glinting in the gray light.

But his mask is what terrifies me the most. He is still wearing the hard black shield mask that covers the top half of his face, hiding his eyes completely. The silver edge of his jagged scar creeps out from under the mask, tracing down his jawline and disappearing under his shirt collar.

Panic surges. My veil is gone. My hair is messy. Dirt stains on my skin. I look nothing like Alyssa.

I grab a towel, forcing arrogance into my tone. “People are full of surprises, Mr. Sterling. Even the ones you think you bought.”

He steps closer, boots clicking against stone. His body blocks the light, trapping me against the bench.

“You look different without makeup,” he says softly, his rough voice vibrating in the small space between us. “The news shows you loud, cruel. Yet here you hide in a greenhouse with mud on your skin.”

His large hand rises slowly, brushing my collar. I freeze, holding my breath as his long fingers gently touch the collar of my knit sweater. Cold fingers graze my neck. My pulse betrays me.

“And your voice,” he murmurs, thumb lingering near my jawline.

“Your father warned me about a loud, screechy tone.”

“You speak quietly.”

“Like something hiding in the dark.”

My throat tightens. If he feels the tremor in my pulse, I’m finished.

I swallow hard. “Maybe being locked in a fortress changes a person. You wanted a ghost for a wife. Why be surprised when I act like one?”

Silence stretches. His masked gaze burns into me. Then, slowly, he pulls back, sliding his hand into his pocket.

“A ghost indeed,” he says. His eyes flick to the dying flower. “The head gardener tells me this estate has no life. If you want to waste time here, fine. It keeps you out of my way.”

He strides toward the exit, coat sweeping behind him. At the door, he stops.

“The greenhouse is your only boundary, Alyssa.”

“Stay here if you’re bored.”

“But don’t let my staff see you digging like a servant.”

“Wash your face.”

“Act like a wife.”

“Do not make your strange behavior gossip for my servants.”

The iron door slams shut. The glass roof trembles from the noise.

The moment he is gone, my legs give out. I sink to the floor, dirt falling from my shaking hands. He’s watching me. Testing me. One slip, and the lie collapses. My grandmother’s life depends on keeping this mask intact.

I am terrified of his sharp eyes, but I cannot stay locked in that dark bedroom suite all day without going crazy. This greenhouse is the only boundary he allows me — and the only place I can breathe. I have to come back here, clear my thoughts, and find a plan to save my grandmother before he catches me.