Celeste – POV

By noon, the constant silence in the East Wing was starting to make my teeth itch.

I'd already read the press summary Ava sent over, two glowing mentions of how well I'd "blended in" at the Rosenthal event, a slightly fuzzy photo of me stepping out of the limo in that green dress, and a headline that called me the stoic mystery bride with a stare like winter. Not bad, I supposed. At least they didn't say I looked scared.

Still, it was a performance. Everything was.

Breakfast was lonely. The sunlight through the tall windows felt fake. The books Ava had pre-approved for the bedside table were stiff and soulless. I was supposed to pick from a list of flower options for the estate's quarterly landscaping rotation catalogue that had been tucked in the drawer, seventeen different variations of "classic hedges." I felt like a ghost in a museum.

By two o'clock, I couldn't take it anymore.

I slipped on a sweater over my blouse and wandered into the hallway, walking without a destination, letting my feet echo through the house like an open dare.

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The Westwood library was silent as a chapel.

I'd passed it before a few nights ago, it was always closed and heavy, but this time, the door creaked open with a push. Inside, the ceiling arched high and domed, dust motes catching in the faint shafts of light that filtered down from clerestory windows. The bookshelves rose in clean, orderly lines of dark wood and glass, broken only by the occasional armchair or sculptural reading lamp. It smelled like ink, leather, and time.

I trailed my fingers across a shelf of biographies. Yawn. History. No thanks. Economics, absolutely not.

Then I found a thin, dust-covered book half-hidden between two real estate volumes. The cover was a faded soft green. No dust jacket. Just a pressed sunflower etched faintly into the spine.

Practical Gardening for the Modern Romantic.

I almost laughed as I opened it. Inside, neat black-and-white drawings showed how to pot herbs, how to set up trellises, how to balance soil pH in limestone-heavy ground. The tone was practical, even a little sarcastic.

Like someone had written it for real people, not socialites with hedge mazes and silent gardeners.

The longer I read, the more something strange stirred inside me. It was obvious enough that this place didn't want flowers. I was supposed to keep out of the garden, with it's cold hedges and trimmed perfection. Every wall outside was slate or stone or brushed steel, but I could picture it, just for a moment. A row of stubborn marigolds along the eastern walk. Wild basil in the cracks near the conservatory. Cacti shaped like middle fingers standing proudly between two marble lion statues.

Wouldn't that be something? I turned a page and smiled to myself.

Later, back in my room, I made a list. It wasn't serious, not really. I didn't even know if I'd eventually be allowed to dig holes in Adrian Westwood's fortress, but writing the names helped. Lavender. Marigold. Foxglove (poisonous, probably a bad idea). Rosemary. Tomatoes. Three obnoxious cacti. Writing them down felt like I was claiming something.

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That night, I happened to find a box beneath one of the side drawers in the wardrobe, tucked behind a set of scarves I hadn't asked for.

Inside were old press clippings, articles about Westwood Holdings. Some about Adrian. But most were about my father.

Real estate mogul faces bankruptcy.

Whitmore Enterprises defaults on overseas contract.

A last-ditch merger rumored behind closed doors.

They were dated six months before the wedding, I sat on the floor, surrounded by paper ghosts.

He hadn't just married me off for ambition. He'd done it to survive, and I'd let him, because that's what good daughters were supposed to do. Every new day came with a constant reminder of what I'd now become and the finality of the decision that I'd made, the life I was doomed to lead.

I went back to bed and tried my hardest to fall asleep.

Adrian – POV

By evening, the boardroom drama had been contained, temporarily. One junior partner resigned with a suspiciously neat statement, Marcus assuring me it would all stay internal. But I wasn't satisfied, traitors often had a way of regrouping. I returned to the estate well past dark, stepping out of the car into that same cold hush the grounds always kept.

I looked up at the eastern windows and saw a light still on. Hers.

It shouldn't have mattered. But it did. I walked past the library on my way to my wing, and stopped short, the door was ajar.

Inside, I found a chair pulled out. Celeste laying in her bed, fretfully sleeping, a tangle of red bed-head fanned out on the pillow. A book left on the end table, its spine sun-worn and soft.

Practical Gardening for the Modern Romantic. I stared at it, then picked it up, and for some reason I couldn't explain, I smiled.