Flashback. Months ago...…
The greenhouse behind the estate was bathed in late afternoon light, the glass panels misted at the edges from the contrast of warm air and early spring chill. It smelled of damp soil and jasmine—peaceful, private. Celeste sat on a low stone bench near a row of blooming orchids, tapping the tip of her pen against a closed journal, lost in her thoughts.
Her mother's voice interrupted. "Celeste? There's someone I'd like you to meet."
She glanced up.
Damien stepped into the room with all the poise of someone who was never unsure of his place. His suit was tailored but not flashy, his expression warm but unreadable. A small lion pin glinted at his collar—subtle, but a symbol of old power. The kind that moved silently in rooms like these.
"This is Damien Arclayne," her mother said with a fondness that made Celeste instantly suspicious. "His family's been close to ours for years. He'll be in the city for a while."
Damien offered a nod. "Pleasure to meet you."
Celeste returned it with a cautious smile. "Likewise."
Her mother's eyes twinkled as she excused herself. "I'll leave you two. Talk. Get to know each other."
And then it was just them.
Damien took a measured look around the greenhouse. "You spend a lot of time here?"
"When I can," she said. "It's quieter than the rest of the estate."
"I get that." He gave a small smile, not forced, but intentional. "The noise gets old."
There was a pause. Comfortable, oddly.
She gestured to the bench. "Sit, if you're staying."
He did.
Over the Following Weeks…
They fell into an easy rhythm.
He didn't push, didn't brag. He listened. He asked the right questions—gentle, not probing. The kind that made her forget to guard her answers.
She told him things no one else knew. Not the deepest parts of herself—not yet—but enough.
She told him about Leon. How he was quiet, unreadable, frustrating. How she couldn't stop thinking about him. How he had given her a gift once with no note and how that, somehow, meant more than any love letter.
Damien had nodded, not judging. "Sounds like he's afraid of how much he feels."
Celeste blinked. "He doesn't show it."
"Doesn't mean it's not there," Damien said. "Some men… they're terrified of what they can't control."
She'd never thought of it that way.
She also talked about work. The constant pressure. The weight of responsibility she hadn't exactly asked for. "I'm tired all the time," she'd admitted one night, curled into the corner of a couch in the library. "Even when I'm not doing anything."
"Because you're never really off," Damien had said softly. "That's what pressure does. You carry it even when you sleep."
That had struck her.
She hadn't realized how much she'd begun to trust him—until one night, she caught herself almost texting him before Leon.
She hadn't sent the message. But the impulse had been there.
And Damien never pushed. Never asked for more. He just stayed.
Reliable. Warm. Understanding.
Too good to be true.