The morning broke with grey skies and a stillness that settled over the estate like a warning. Alina lingered longer at breakfast, her thoughts elsewhere — specifically, in the garden where something quiet and inexplicable had taken root the day before.
She considered slipping away again, maybe with a different book. Maybe with no book at all.
But before she could rise from her seat, the butler entered the dining room with a crisp bow. "Miss Alina," he announced. "Mr. Julien DiLaurent has arrived. He wishes to see you."
Alina froze, her teacup halfway to her lips.
Of course he does, she thought bitterly.
Her mother, seated beside her, lit up with approval. "How lovely! He's showing initiative. Go on, darling. Make yourself presentable."
"I'm having breakfast," Alina said coolly, not rising.
"Alina." Her mother's voice sharpened just enough. "He's your fiancé."
The word hung in the air like a weight around her neck.
Reluctantly, she stood. "Where is he?"
"The drawing room, miss," the butler replied.
She walked slowly, deliberately, every step a reminder of how little choice she had in this arrangement. By the time she reached the drawing room, her spine was straight, her face composed.
Julien turned as she entered. Impeccably dressed as always — expensive watch, tailored shirt, perfect hair. He smiled, his charm carefully curated.
"Alina," he said warmly. "I thought I'd surprise you. Hope I'm not intruding."
She offered a polite nod. "You are, but no one will say it."
He laughed, as if she were teasing. "I missed you."
She sat on the edge of one of the chairs, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap. "You saw me two days ago."
"And yet," he leaned forward, "that was too long."
His words felt like a script.
"I thought we could spend the day together," he continued. "Maybe a walk through the grounds, lunch under the terrace, and later… well, I've brought something for you."
She raised a brow. "A gift?"
"Of course." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. "A bracelet. My mother helped pick it."
Alina opened it without enthusiasm. Diamonds, of course. Cold, flawless, and expensive — like everything the DiLaurents represented.
"It's beautiful," she said, placing the box on the table.
Julien didn't seem to notice her disinterest. "Shall we walk? I've heard the gardens here are even more stunning in the daylight."
She stood with restrained grace, heart sinking.
Because suddenly, the thought of Julien walking those same paths — the same paths she'd taken with a book and soft glances — felt like something sacred being trespassed.
As they exited through the main doors, she cast one glance toward the garden.
But there was no sign of Luca.
Only the wind stirring the roses.
Alina walked beside Julien, her arm loosely tucked in his, though her body felt miles away. The garden, vibrant with morning dew and bursting with color, should've offered a beautiful backdrop for what her mother would call "a promising engagement."
Instead, it felt… invaded.
Julien talked, of course — about a new investment his father was considering, a gala they'd be attending next month, the honeymoon destinations he had in mind for their wedding "once the paperwork between the empires is finalized."
Alina nodded when appropriate, smiled when expected. But her eyes weren't on him. They wandered to the rose bushes, to the ivy-covered trellis, to the path she had taken only yesterday — and to the space where she'd first seen Ansel standing with his hands buried in the earth.
Today, that space was empty.
"Your gardener's done well," Julien remarked, plucking a small bloom from a low-hanging branch without asking. "It's cleaner than I remember. You can always tell the quality of a household by how it tends its flowers."
She looked at him, frowning slightly. "You tore that flower off its stem."
Julien laughed, tucking it behind her ear like a child placing a prize. "Don't be dramatic. It was barely hanging on."
It hadn't been.
Alina reached up and removed the bloom, letting it fall to the ground. "We don't pick flowers in this garden," she said evenly.
He blinked at her, amused. "Since when?"
"Since yesterday," she murmured, stepping ahead.
Julien didn't seem to notice her sudden shift in tone. He continued chatting, his voice a gentle drone behind her — commenting on marble statues, on renovations his mother wanted for their estate, on how he envisioned their engagement photos being taken by the fountain at sunset.
Alina barely heard a word. Her gaze kept drifting toward the gardener's tools neatly stacked beside the trellis — a reminder that Ansel had been there. Perhaps still was.
When they turned the path leading toward the east side of the garden, a shadow of movement caught her eye.
Ansel
Half-hidden behind a flowering tree, he was adjusting a ladder, a pair of pruning shears in hand. His eyes met hers for just a second — brief, neutral.
And yet it sent her heart into a strange rhythm.
Julien didn't notice.
But Alina did.
And when Julien reached for her hand a moment later, her fingers hesitated.
They made their way back toward the mansion, the garden path narrowing slightly beneath an arch of climbing jasmine. Alina kept her pace slow, letting Julien lead the conversation — though she barely registered his words anymore.
"…I was thinking the engagement could be held here," Julien was saying. "Your family has the space, and my mother will insist on overseeing the decorations anyway. We'll invite the press, of course, but keep it tasteful. I know how you hate the cameras."
Alina bit the inside of her cheek. You know nothing about what I hate.
The gravel shifted beneath their feet as they stepped onto the stone path leading to the back entrance of the estate. Servants bustled near the side entrance, carrying trays of fresh linens and floral arrangements, preparing for yet another evening dinner.
And standing just beyond them — half-shielded by the climbing vines along the wall — was Ansel.
His shirt was streaked faintly with soil, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hands dusty from pruning. He was bent over a crate of potted plants when the sound of Julien's voice rose just enough to carry:
"—and once the engagement is official, our fathers can finalize the last stage of the merger. You'll be my wife, Alina. The DiLaurent name will be yours. It's all coming together, finally."
Alina's chest tightened. She glanced sideways and caught Ansel's head lifting slightly at the word wife. His hands paused on the crate.
Then, slowly, he turned his head — and their eyes met.
He didn't look shocked. Or angry. Or jealous.
Just… still. Quietly still, as though something within him had gone cold. Or perhaps numb.
Alina held his gaze longer than she should have. Her lips parted slightly, as if to speak, though no words came. There was nothing she could say in that moment — not with Julien beside her, still smiling, still speaking.
But Ansel looked away first this time. Back to his plants. Back to his work. Back to the safety of pretending.
Julien hadn't noticed.
But Alina had. And the moment settled into her bones like a bruise.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The late afternoon sun poured through the tall windows of the sitting room, bathing the pale furniture in gold. Alina sat stiffly on the edge of the velvet chaise, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Julien stood near the fireplace, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, watching her with his usual practiced charm — though there was something harder in his eyes today. Something possessive.
"Is something bothering you?" he asked, sipping from his glass.
Alina didn't answer right away. She studied the intricate embroidery of the cushion beside her, as though it might provide the words she needed. "Why did you really come today, Julien?"
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "To see you. To spend time with my fiancée."
She lifted her gaze. "Or to remind me that I am your fiancée?"
His jaw tensed for just a second. "I don't see the difference."
"That's the problem."
He set the glass down with a soft clink. "Alina, I'm trying. I'm doing everything right, aren't I? I visit, I bring gifts, I talk about our future. I speak to you with respect."
"You speak at me, Julien," she said quietly. "Not to me."
His brow furrowed. "So what is it, then? You don't want this engagement?"
She stood slowly. "I didn't ask for it."
"It's what's best for our families," he said sharply, stepping toward her. "You know that. You're not a child, Alina. You were raised for this."
She looked up at him, her voice low but steady. "That doesn't mean I don't feel like one — cornered and voiceless."
Julien's expression darkened. "I won't be made the villain for following through with our families' wishes. You think you're the only one who didn't choose this?"
"I think I'm the only one pretending not to suffocate."
He exhaled, frustrated. "Then what do you want, Alina?"
She hesitated — not because she didn't know, but because she did. She wanted the quiet of the garden. The sound of a voice not polished by wealth or legacy. She wanted the weight in Ansel's eyes when he looked at her like she was something real.
But instead, she said, "Time. I want time."
Julien stared at her, jaw clenched.
And when he finally nodded, it was more for show than understanding. "Take all the time you need. But don't forget—when you're done, the end remains the same."
She didn't answer.
Because deep down, she wasn't sure the end was as inevitable as he believed.