All Chapters of The heart Beneath the Thorn : Chapter 81 - Chapter 88

The air between them was electric.Emilia stood motionless, eyes pinned to Max’s—still unsure why the stranger in the poetry wing of Florence’s greatest library made her heart flutter with such terrible longing.He hadn’t spoken yet.He didn’t need to.She already knew.“Max?”His name dropped from her lips like it had always belonged there, even if her memory didn’t understand why.He nodded slowly, the tension in his jaw flexing like it hurt to be seen.“I followed your letters,” he said. “The ones you didn’t know were from me.”A silence passed between them that wasn’t peaceful—it throbbed with confusion, realization, and something raw that threatened to split her in half.Emilia’s fingers curled tighter around her notebook. “You were the one writing them? That was you?”“Yes.”“All of them?”He gave a hesitant nod.“The metaphors,” she whispered. “The pressed rose. The riddle about Beauty…”“And the Beast,” he said softly.Her throat tightened.The beast. The ballroom. The shame.

The rain had stopped.Pale light filtered through the library’s grand arched windows, casting golden halos across the marble floor. The rooftop garden now felt like a dream — a place where time had paused and hearts had whispered things they never dared before.But below, in a quiet, empty study room tucked between the 17th-century literature and the Renaissance manuscripts, time resumed.Max stood by the tall window, staring out at Florence’s skyline — domes and steeples rising above centuries of history. He didn’t turn when Emilia entered.She closed the door gently behind her. “You wanted to talk?”He turned, slow and solemn, holding something in his hand.A folded piece of parchment. Old, creased, but carefully preserved.His voice was quiet. “I wrote this after the accident… before I knew if you’d ever speak to me again. I wasn’t going to give it to you.”She took a slow step closer. “Why now?”He met her eyes. “Because I finally believe you’re ready to know how much I broke when

The sky over Florence blushed lavender as the sun slipped toward the horizon, casting the rooftop garden in a soft, otherworldly glow.The roses bloomed like secrets—some shy, others bold, curling toward the fading warmth. Ivy clung to marble balustrades, and the scent of rain-kissed petals still clung to the air like perfume. The bells of a nearby cathedral began to toll, low and melodic, echoing through the alleys below.Emilia stood at the garden’s edge, her fingertips grazing the petals of a white rose. She didn’t pluck it. She only touched it, careful and reverent, like someone brushing the memory of a dream.Behind her, Max lingered in stillness—his silhouette half-cast in shadow. His dark coat moved with the wind, his breath visible in the cooling air, but his gaze never left her.It was like watching a vision.And then—softly, quietly—she whispered:“Max.”His name floated across the rooftop like a blessing, like a benediction spoken in the old language of love.He froze.Ever

The rain danced gently against the wide glass windows of the Carter estate, where time seemed to slow and love aged like fine wine. Inside a cozy reading nook nestled between two tall bookshelves, Emilia sat with a well-worn copy of Beauty and the Beast in her lap. Her long, dark hair was loosely tied back, and her reading glasses balanced at the tip of her nose as her voice carried the words like an old melody.“‘…And as she whispered ‘I love you,’ the Beast transformed into a prince, his curse undone by the power of true love.’”Emilio groaned and flopped dramatically against the velvet cushions beside her. He was eight, full of fire and sarcasm, with his father’s striking green eyes and his mother’s dimpled smile. “Ugh, that’s so cheesy, Mama.”“Yeah,” Maxine chimed in from the floor where she was coloring. She was only five, but already a sassy whirlwind of energy wrapped in curls and glitter. “Beasts don’t turn into princes. That’s just… rubish.”“Rubbish,” Emilia corrected gentl