The house woke up differently on the nineteenth.
I heard it before I saw it—voices downstairs, footsteps moving fast, doors opening and closing. When I finally made my way to the kitchen, there were people everywhere. Florists carrying arrangements through the hallway. Someone with a clipboard barking orders into a phone. Margaret directing traffic like she'd been doing this her whole life.
My mother was in the middle of it all, still in her robe, hair pinned up messily, pointing at things and nodding and looking like she was one wrong flower placement away from losing her mind.
"The white ones go in the sitting room, not the dining room. No, the other sitting room. The one with the fireplace." She spotted me and her face softened. "Morning, sweetheart. Sleep okay?"
"Fine. What's happening?"
"Wedding preparations. Richard wanted to hire a full team, but I told him we could manage with just a few people." She laughed, a little manic. "I was wrong. I was very wrong."
A woman carrying a tower of white boxes nearly collided with me. I stepped back against the wall.
"Is there anything I can do?"
"Actually, yes." She grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the stairs. "Richard mentioned wanting to clear some space in the east wing for extra guests tomorrow. There's furniture in your painting room that needs to be moved to storage. He was going to have some of the staff do it, but they're all busy with the flowers and the seating and the—" She waved her hand vaguely. "Everything."
"I can handle it."
"You'll need help. Some of those pieces are heavy." She glanced around, then raised her voice. "Asher!"
I turned. He was coming down the stairs, dressed like he'd been planning to leave—jacket on, keys in his hand. He stopped when he heard his name, and I watched his jaw tighten just slightly.
"Claire." He said it politely, but there was a question underneath.
"I need a favor. Can you help Ivy move some furniture? Just the heavy pieces. It shouldn't take long."
He looked at me. I looked back at him. The silence stretched just a beat too long.
"Fine," he said.
My mother beamed. "Thank you. You're a lifesaver." She kissed my cheek and disappeared into the chaos before either of us could respond.
Asher pocketed his keys. "Let's get this over with."
He walked past me toward the east wing without waiting to see if I was following.
The painting room looked different with someone else in it.
I'd gotten used to it being my space—the easels in the corner, the table with my supplies, the canvas I'd been working on propped against the wall. Having Asher there made it feel smaller somehow. Like there wasn't enough air for both of us.
"That one," I said, pointing to an old armchair that had been shoved into the corner. Heavy wooden frame, faded upholstery. "And the table next to it. Richard said they can go to the storage room at the end of the hall."
Asher didn't respond. Just walked over to the armchair and gripped the sides.
"I can take the other end," I offered.
"I've got it."
He lifted it like it weighed nothing. Carried it out of the room without looking at me.
I grabbed the smaller table and followed.
We made three trips. The armchair, the table, a wooden chest that had been sitting under the window. Each time, we worked in silence. Not uncomfortable exactly, but heavy. Like there were words sitting in the air between us that neither of us wanted to say.
On the last trip, he stopped in the doorway of the painting room. I almost walked into his back.
"What?"
He didn't answer. Just stood there, looking at something.
I stepped around him and saw what had caught his attention.
My canvas.
I'd left it uncovered. Stupid. I always covered it when I wasn't working, but this morning I'd been distracted by the noise downstairs and I'd forgotten.
It wasn't finished. Wasn't even close. Just layers of dark color—blues and greys and hints of black—building on top of each other. The beginning of something I couldn't see yet.
"That's nothing," I said quickly. "Just background work. I haven't figured out what it's going to be."
He walked closer. Stood in front of the canvas like he was studying it. I fought the urge to throw something over it, to hide it from his eyes. This was the most exposed I'd felt since I got here.
"It's dark," he said finally.
"Is that a criticism?"
"No." He tilted his head slightly, still looking. "It's honest."
I didn't know what to say to that.
He turned away from the canvas, and for a second our eyes met.
"The storage room door sticks," he said, his voice flat again. "You have to lift and push at the same time."
He walked out.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty doorway, trying to figure out what had just happened.
The rest of the day passed .
My mother needed opinions on everything. Which tablecloth looked better. Whether the candles should be ivory or cream. If the string quartet should play during dinner or just during the ceremony. I answered as best I could, but my mind kept drifting back to the painting room. To the way Asher had looked at my canvas. To the word he'd used.
Honest.
What did that even mean? It was just paint. Just colors I'd thrown together because I didn't know what else to do with my hands.
Dinner was rushed. My mother barely ate, too busy going over tomorrow's schedule with Richard. Asher was there but quiet, eating steadily, not joining the conversation. Every now and then I felt his eyes on me, but when I looked up, he was always focused on his plate.
After, I escaped to my room.
I tried to paint, but nothing came. The canvas sat there, those dark colors staring back at me, and all I could think about was him standing in front of it.
My phone buzzed.
I ignored it at first. Probably my mother asking another wedding question. But it buzzed again. And again.
I picked it up.
Three messages. From a number I hadn't seen in two years but still recognized. A number I'd deleted but never really forgotten.
Unknown:heard you left the country
Unknown:running away doesn't change what you did
Unknown:everyone still remembers ivy
I stared at the screen.
My hands were shaking. When had they started shaking?
The words blurred in front of me. I blinked and realized my eyes were wet. No. I wasn't going to cry over this. I wasn't going to let him have that power over me, not anymore, not from across an ocean.
I deleted the messages. Blocked the number again. Put my phone face-down on the nightstand and pressed my palms against my eyes until the urge to scream passed.
Fresh start, my mother had said. Leave it behind.
But some things didn't stay buried. Some things followed you no matter how far you ran.
That night, I went to the kitchen.
He was there. Same spot.
I got my water. Stood at the sink longer than I needed to. Tried to steady my breathing, tried to push the texts out of my head, tried to be normal.
"You're shaking."
I turned. He was watching me. Actually watching, not just glancing.
"Cold," I said.
He didn't believe me. I could see it in his face. But he didn't push.
"Tomorrow's going to be long," he said instead. "You should sleep."
"So should you."
"I will."
A lie. We both knew it.
But there was something almost gentle in the way he said it. Something that felt like concern, buried so deep I might have imagined it.
"Goodnight," I said.
"Goodnight."
I left. But I felt his eyes on my back all the way down the hall.