The greenhouse sat on the farthest edge of the mansion, nestled in a fog-covered patch of land untouched by security cameras or Lucien's watchful eyes. It was the only space Eliàn called his own, though it hadn't been gifted to him–he had simply claimed it, quietly, without permission. It was the one place no one dared to question him in.
Morning light filtered through misty panes of glass, casting a soft green hue over the world of orchids, nightshade, and roses with thorns sharper than razors. Eliàn sat cross-legged on the stone floor, his body trembling slightly, arms wrapped around his aching abdomen. He wore a loose ivory shirt, sleeves pushed up as he worked delicately with a miniature pair of silver shears, trimming the edge of a bleeding heart vine.
His breath caught.
The pain had started the day before – dull, like a toothache in his lower back. But this morning, it had escalated into a silent war inside him. Like his bones were breaking inward. Like something venomous was crawling under his skin and ripping at his insides with claws.
He flinched, sharp enough to snip the tip of his finger.
A drop of blood landed on a white lily.
Perfect.
Poison and beauty – everything about this garden mirrored him.
He shifted onto his side, panting now. His entire pelvis was burning. The pain crawled down his thighs and up his spine. He was used to it. Mostly. But there were days when it clawed too deeply, days when it felt like his own body wanted to ruin him over and over again. CIV-MRRC–Complex Intersex Variant with Müllerian Retention and Rectovaginal Communication. It wasn't just cramps. It was agony. It was hormonal chaos. And sometimes, it made him forget who he was.
He gritted his teeth.
The glass door creaked.
Lucien entered, dressed immaculately as always – navy slacks, black gloves, and a tailored overcoat that cost more than most people's lives. He didn't belong in a greenhouse. The dirt disrespected him.
"There you are," Lucien said. His voice wasn't angry. Just... annoyed. Like he had been mildly inconvenienced.
Eliàn didn't lift his head.
Lucien stepped over vines and roots like they were beneath him, approaching slowly until he stood above Eliàn's crumpled form.
"You didn't show for breakfast. Again."
Eliàn looked up at him, pale and sweating. "I couldn't move," he whispered. "It hurts."
Lucien's gaze swept over him, unreadable. "It's that hormone thing again also today is the last day right?"
Eliàn nodded faintly.
Lucien exhaled. "I told you to start eating better. That junk the doctor gave you–did you even take it?"
"I did."
"Then it's all in your head," Lucien said flatly, brushing imaginary lint off his sleeve. "You've always been too sensitive."
The words stung. Eliàn turned his face away, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I just...needed a moment."
Lucien crouched down beside him and wiped the blood from Eliàn's finger with a silk handkerchief. His touch was gentle, practiced. It almost looked like love. Almost.
"You're still beautiful," Lucien whispered.
It wasn't comfort. It was possession.
Eliàn flinched again as a fresh wave of pain crashed into him. Lucien simply stood and turned toward the door.
"Don't stay out here too long. You have a fitting tonight. Clean it up. Red velvet again."
The door closed behind him
Eliàn stayed where he was, curled like a broken vine among the flowers, his pain blooming silently in the garden.
The poison was inside him.
And Lucien would never see it.