The morning air in the Wadee estate carried the sharp bite of dew-kissed roses and distant woodsmoke from the kitchens. Gerffron stood at the edge of the east-wing balcony again, the same spot where he had spent half the night turning plans over in his mind like worry stones. The black rose Gorgina had sent still sat in a crystal vase on his bedside table—its petals glossy, thorns vicious, scent heavy and sweet. He had not slept much. Every time he closed his emerald eyes, he saw either the Hyderabad campus or the cold golden-amber stare of his wife. Both felt like chains.
Selfi arrived precisely at eight with breakfast and a neatly folded riding cloak. "Your Grace wished to explore the gardens alone today. I have prepared a light luncheon basket should you require it, and a small dagger—for the thorns, of course." Her tone was perfectly neutral, but her eyes held the tiniest spark of understanding. She knew he needed space. Smart woman.
"Thank you," he said, and meant it. "No one is to follow me. Not even you."
Selfi bowed without argument. "As you command, Your Grace. Lady Elowen has already left for the city markets. Her Grace is still on patrol and will not return until tomorrow evening at the earliest."
Perfect. One less pair of amber eyes watching his every move.
He changed quickly into something simpler than yesterday's embroidered finery—a soft linen tunic the color of moss, dark breeches, and the flowing emerald over-robe that Selfi insisted "still marked him as consort." The dagger she provided was small, elegant, and surprisingly sharp. He tucked it into his boot. Old habits. In India, he had never carried anything sharper than a pen, but after the 'computer-lab night', he had started keeping a pocket knife in his bag. Small things that made him feel less helpless. That version of Deepak had died on the cold, harsh cement pavement of Hyderabad's B-school. This version is intended to live.
The gardens of the Wadee villa stretched like a living labyrinth behind the main house. High yew hedges formed green corridors, marble fountains whispered secrets to the wind, and everywhere—everywhere—were roses. Crimson, ivory, sapphire-tipped, and the rare midnight-black ones that matched the gift on his nightstand. Their perfume was almost cloying, sweet enough to drown in. He walked slowly, letting the gravel crunch under his boots, breathing it all in. In his old life, he had hated flowers; they reminded him of the garlands relatives forced on him during festivals while whispering how "pretty" he was for a boy. Now the irony tasted metallic on his tongue.
Half an hour in, he found a stone bench half-hidden by a curtain of climbing roses. He sat, opened the basket, and bit into a honey-drizzled roll while his mind wandered. The original Gerffron had grown up here—or at least in some lesser wing of this world. A servant's son among half-siblings, watching his mother collect children like trophies and turn them into unpaid labour. Deepak could almost picture it: a thin boy with mousy hair learning to keep his head down, learning that pride was a luxury a house husband could not afford. Then the royal decree had come, demanding the duke take a consort to stabilise some political nonsense, and the Cliff family had sold their quietest son for a chest of gold.
He chewed more slowly. Sold. The word sat heavily. Just like he had been sold—first by relatives who compared him to Birsha and found him wanting, then by his very own cousin Birsha, who outed him for not being a hetero boy, and finally by the universe that pushed him to jump off the terrace. Different worlds, same transaction.
A soft rustle to his left made him freeze.
Two young maids in gray uniforms were trimming a rose bush twenty feet away, unaware of him. Their voices carried on the breeze.
"…heard Lady Elowen say the new consort looks too much like that old portrait in the north gallery."
"Which one? One of the previous duke's lost nephews?"
"No, the one they keep covered. The foreign-looking boy who disappeared twenty years ago. Same eyes, same hair. Her Grace took one look at him during the wedding and went white as milk. Then she ordered the black roses for his room."
The second maid giggled nervously. "Think he's a bastard replacement? Or maybe Lady Elowen's trying to make Her Grace uncomfortable on purpose. You know how she is about bloodlines."
"Shh! If the consort hears—"
They moved on, voices fading into the hedge maze.
Gerffron sat very still, honey roll forgotten. Same eyes. Black roses. The way Gorgina had stared at him during the vows—like she recognised something she hated. The way her grip on his arm last night had felt personal, not just aristocratic disdain. A cold finger traced down his spine. He had thought it was a coincidence, the amber eyes reminding him of Birsha. But what if it was more? What if this world had its own twisted sense of humour and had dropped him straight into the arms of someone who already knew exactly how to break him?
He shook his head hard. No. That was paranoia talking. Birsha is not here—he is probably living happily after he pushed him to choose death. This was just trauma bleeding through. Still… he filed the conversation away. Every scrap of information was a weapon now.
He stood and kept walking deeper into the gardens. The hedges grew taller, the roses darker. Soon the manicured paths gave way to older stone flagstones overgrown with moss. A small iron gate half-hidden by vines caught his eye. No lock, just a simple latch rusted with age. Curiosity—something the old Deepak had learned to suppress—flared bright and hot. He glanced around. No one.
The gate creaked open like a sigh.
Behind it lay a forgotten section of the garden: wilder, untamed. Roses grew in chaotic bursts instead of neat rows. Thorns tangled with ivy. In the center stood a crumbling marble fountain shaped like a weeping woman, water long dried up. And beyond that… a low stone wall with a wooden door set into it. The door looked newer than the rest—reinforced iron bands, fresh oil on the hinges. A small barred window at eye level.
Gerffron's heart picked up speed. The locked door in the east wing had been one thing. This felt different. More… alive.
He stepped closer. From inside came the faintest sound—like metal scraping stone. Then silence. He held his breath. Another scrape. Then a low, almost inaudible cough. Someone was in there.
His hand moved toward the handle before his brain caught up. The dagger in his boot suddenly felt very real. He was a house-husband now, not a scholarship kid running from bullies. But old instincts screamed danger. He forced himself to stop, fingers hovering an inch from the latch.
A voice drifted out—young, rough, exhausted. "Water… please…"
Gerffron's stomach twisted. He knew that tone. The same cracked desperation he had heard in his own voice the morning after the computer lab, when he had dragged himself home barely able to walk. Whoever was behind that door was not a prisoner of war or a political hostage. They were suffering.
He took one step back. Then another. He couldn't afford to be the hero before he even knew the rules of this game.
Still, he couldn't just walk away.
He pulled the small luncheon basket closer, took out the water skin Selfi had packed, and a wrapped bundle of bread and cheese. Moving silently, he set them right outside the barred window where they could be reached from inside but not seen from the main path. Then he tore a strip from the bottom of his over-robe—emerald silk, expensive—and tied it around the bundle like a ribbon. A signal. Someone had been kind once. Maybe they would be again.
He whispered through the bars, voice barely audible. "I don't know who you are. But eat. Drink. I'll come back when I can."
No answer. Only the sound of slow, pained breathing.
Gerffron closed the gate behind him with shaking hands and hurried back toward the civilized part of the garden. His pulse hammered. He had just risked everything on a hunch. If a servant found that bundle, if Gorgina heard, if Lady Elowen—
A new voice cut through his panic.
"Well, well. The little consort is playing explorer."
Lady Elowen stood at the entrance to the rose maze, arms folded, burgundy-and-silver hair pinned with ruby combs that matched her daughter's. She wore a riding habit the color of dried blood. Behind her, two liveried guards waited like statues.
Gerffron forced his face into the bland, obedient mask he had perfected in two lives. "Lady Elowen. I was told the gardens were open to me."
"They are," she said, stepping closer. Her perfume was the same cloying rose scent, only sharper. "But some sections are… restricted. For your safety, of course. Wild roses have thorns that can poison the blood."
She smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.
Deepak felt the old familiar crawl under his skin—the same one Birsha used to trigger with a single raised eyebrow in the school corridor. He bowed the shallow consort bow Madam Vesper had drilled into him yesterday. "I apologize if I worried you. I merely wished to see the full beauty of my new home."
The word "home" tasted like ash.
Lady Elowen's gaze flicked to the hem of his robe where he had torn the strip. She noticed. Of course she did.
"Such a shame about the fabric," she murmured. "Expensive silk. But then, you Cliff boys were never taught the value of things that don't belong to you." She reached out and flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulder. The touch lingered half a second too long. "Tell me, Gerffron. Do you miss your little half-siblings scrubbing floors back at Cliff Manor? Or has the duke's gold already made you forget where you came from?"
The words were a blade wrapped in silk. He felt them slice exactly where they were meant to.
He kept his voice soft. "I remember everything, my lady. Every lesson. Every lesson my family taught me about survival."
For the first time, something like surprise flickered across her face. Then it hardened into approval. Twisted, cold approval.
"Good," she said. "Because in this house, survival is the only lesson that matters. Remember that when my daughter returns tomorrow. She dislikes… surprises."
She turned on her heel and swept away, guards trailing like shadows. Gerffron waited until she disappeared before he let out the breath he had been holding. His hands were steady. That was new. In his old life, they would have shaken for hours after an encounter like that.
He looked back once toward the hidden gate. The bundle was still there, untouched from this distance. Whoever was behind that door had not taken it yet. Or maybe they were waiting for nightfall. Either way, he had done something. Small. Dangerous. But something.
Back in his room, Selfi was waiting with afternoon tea and a worried crease between her brows. She took one look at his torn robe and the dirt on his boots and said nothing. Instead, she simply produced a fresh over-robe and laid it across the chair.
"Her Grace sent a raven," she said quietly. "She will be home by noon tomorrow. She requests your presence at dinner. And… she asked if the black rose pleased you."
Gerffron poured himself tea with hands that no longer trembled. "Tell her it did. Tell her the thorns were especially beautiful."
Selfi's lips twitched—the closest she ever came to a smile. "As you wish, Your Grace."
That night he sat at the massive oak desk in his study and began writing. Not a diary—too dangerous—but a simple ledger. Dates. Names. Conversations. The two maids in the garden. Lady Elowen's words. The hidden door. The voice asking for water. He wrote in the tiny, precise script he had used for exam notes back in Hyderabad. No one here would recognize the language if they found it; he had switched to a mix of Hindi and Bengali shorthand only he understood.
When he finished, he hid the pages inside a hollowed-out copy of "Proper Conduct for the Domestic Noble." Then he stood at the window and watched the moon again. Same moon as last night.
He touched the gold band on his finger. The chain Gorgina had mentally attached to it felt heavier tonight. But chains could be turned into weapons. He had learned that after the airport, after the truck, after waking up married to a stranger whose eyes felt like coming home to hell.
Tomorrow, Gorgina would return. Tomorrow, he would smile, bow, play the perfect house-husband. And while she watched him, he would watch her right back.
Because roses had thorns.
And Gerffron was learning exactly where to grip them.