Celeste – POV

The rain had softened into a fine mist by late morning, fog curling along the hedges and blanketing the garden in a silvery hush. The house was quiet, more so than usual. It wasn't the kind of peace that calmed-it only made everything feel more distant.

I sat curled in the window nook of the East Wing, legs tucked beneath me, I tried not to think of the strange note I'd found the day before and flipped a book open on my lap. Practical Gardening for the Modern Romantic. The title still made me smile. It was absurdly out of place here, in this cold marble palace of silence and schedule. But I liked it anyway.

The illustrations were charming. Black-and-white sketches of foxglove, thyme, rows of basil in neat clay pots. Some pages had handwritten notes in the margins, different handwriting than the printed text. They spoke in a tone both practical and oddly funny:

"Tomatoes can be stubborn but rewarding. Like men."

I ran my fingers over the line drawings, imagining the feel of rough soil, the stubborn pull of a root refusing to be dug up. It was the first time in days that I felt something other than fatigue.

There was something about planting things, about nurturing something that didn't ask anything of you, that made the thought of staying here a little less unbearable.

Maybe I couldn't run. Maybe I couldn't scream. But I could grow something.

I closed the book slowly, keeping a finger inside to mark the page. I'd made my decision. Tomorrow, I would ask about the garden. Even if the answer was no, the asking would be mine.

---

A soft knock at the door pulled me back into the present.

"Enter," I called.

Marla's head peeked through. Her cheeks were flushed, curls bouncing, lipstick a cheerful coral. "Just checking on my favorite bride. How are we feeling this gloomy morning?"

"Still married," I said with a faint smile.

Marla breezed in like sunshine on legs. "Wonderful. You'll want to wear something neutral for dinner tonight. There's talk of a new business feature hitting the media this week. Your presence at Adrian's side will be... symbolically useful."

"Lovely," I muttered. "So I'm an accessory."

"Honey, aren't we all?" She chuckled, pulling a beige wrap dress from one of the rolling racks. "Aha. We'll go with this one, it's got 'wife with nothing to hide' written all over it."

She hummed while laying out accessories, making a dramatic fuss over my collarbone and fussing with my hair. Nothing she said was out of the ordinary. No cryptic comments, no glances that lingered too long. Just brightness, color, and the faint smell of vanilla.

And yet, when she left, a strange thought lingered behind: I still didn't know where she went when she wasn't with me.

---

Adrian – POV

The private alert came through on Markus's encrypted line.

Allegra Voss had arrived in the city.

I stood in my office, the estate's eastern wing still draped in shadow, and watched the security feed cycle through the grounds. No breach, no threat, not yet.

But I knew better than to wait.

Markus's message was brief.

"She's already moving. She made contact with two journalists and a lawyer. We're watching her."

I tapped my finger against the desk. Allegra never acted without purpose, and she certainly didn't hover without a target. Which meant she wanted something.

And somehow, this time, I had the sinking feeling it wasn't the company she was circling.

It was Celeste.

---

Celeste – POV

Dinner wasn't as formal as the Rosenthal event, but it wasn't casual either. The dining room had been set with care. Polished silver, flickering candles, a single vase of dark hydrangeas in the center of the table. Langley had announced dinner would be served privately tonight, no guests, no staff hovering in the background.

When I arrived, Adrian was already seated, sleeves rolled, collar loose, but no less severe. His tie was missing. That alone felt strange.

He didn't speak at first. Just gestured for me to sit.

"Wine?" he asked.

I shook my head. "No, thank you."

He poured himself half a glass of something dark. The only sound was the quiet clink of crystal against glass.

Then, abruptly, he spoke.

"I need to know more about you."

I blinked. "Excuse me? Didn't Ava give a dossier too?"

"She did," he replied. "I skimmed it."

"Same," I said, rolling my eyes. "Fifty pages of curated trivia and media-safe answers. I didn't think it would help if I memorized a script."

He poured himself half a glass of wine. "I prefer to hear things directly from the source. Less room for error. Or surprises."

He set his glass down. "There's a business feature running next week. If we're seen together again, there will be interviews, profiles. We'll be asked questions. I need to be able to answer them."

"So this is a prep session."

He met my eyes. "This is survival."

I bit back a laugh. "Romantic."

"I don't do romantic."

"No, you don't. You do efficient, strategic. Interrogative, like a cop."

His jaw twitched. "Tell me about your childhood."

"My childhood?"

"Where did you grow up? Public or private school? Any serious illnesses, pets, academic competitions?"

"Are you serious right now?"

He stared at me without blinking.

"Yes."

I sighed, reaching for a bread roll I had no intention of eating. "Public school until ninth grade. Then private, because my father landed a temporary contract with a Lagos firm. No illnesses. No pets. I came second in a regional spelling bee once, if that helps sell the brand."

He didn't write any of it down. He just watched me, absorbing it like data in that robotic way of his. I could almost hear the gears turning in his head.

Then I turned the tables.

"What about you?" I asked. "Where did you grow up?"

He paused.

"Private education. Summer internships by thirteen. I was groomed to inherit the company. There wasn't time for pets."

"Favorite color?"

He said nothing.

"Favorite food?"

Still silence.

"Any irrational fears?" I leaned forward. "Heights? Clowns? Submitting to human emotion?"

"Know your place. You're not here to know me."

"And yet I'm supposed to be your wife."

He pushed his chair back slightly, a chill crossing his eyes.

"This marriage was never about fairness, Celeste."

"Then what is it about?" I asked, voice sharp now. "Because if it's just appearances, you should have hired an actress. At least she'd know not to ask questions."

He stood. Not abruptly, but with enough presence to feel like the room had changed.

He came around the table, stopping a few feet from where I sat.

"I didn't marry you because I wanted to," he said quietly. "I did it because it was necessary. But don't mistake necessity for permission. You're here under my name. My roof. You will look the part, speak the part, and never forget who controls the story."

His voice wasn't raised. It didn't need to be.

I stood, slow and measured.

"I won't forget," I said. "But you should remember something too."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I didn't choose this either, but I'll play the part until the curtains fall. Just don't expect me to go quietly when they do."

---

Later that night, I returned to my room and flopped onto the bed, pulse still racing. The conversation looped in my head like a bitter song.

Adrian Westwood. Why did he act that way? Cold one moment, almost tender the next. Did he get off on confusing me? Was it power?

Control?

Or was he just... fractured inside?

I rolled over and opened the gardening book again. The pages were soft and familiar. My finger traced over an illustration of a wildflower trellis, the caption beneath it reading:

"Grow something even if they don't want you to. Especially if they don't."