The morning sun filtered through the grand windows of the breakfast room, casting golden patterns across the marble floor. Alina stirred her tea without much interest, listening to the hum of male voices rise and fall in the adjacent room.
Her father and brothers were already deep in conversation — business, investments, meetings. Julien had arrived earlier, kissed her cheek like it meant something, and joined the men in suits and silence.
As usual, she was not invited.
"Eat something," her mother said, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin. "Your figure can afford it for now."
Alina gave a polite nod, took one more sip of tea, and excused herself.
Once in the hallway, she slowed. She could go back to her room and stare at the ceiling. Or to the library again, where the books were beautiful but too well-behaved. But no — something tugged at her chest, quiet but persistent.
She needed air. Space. Stillness.
She made her way toward the garden.
The double doors opened with a soft creak, and the scent of lavender and earth met her instantly. The estate gardens stretched wide and endless, wrapped in manicured hedges and wild corners her mother still hadn't ordered trimmed.
She slipped off her sandals and walked barefoot across the grass, a worn copy of Wuthering Heights in hand. There was a bench tucked between two climbing rose arches — hidden from most of the main paths. Her favorite secret place.
She sat. Let the sun warm her skin. Opened the book.
And then — movement.
She glanced up.
And saw him.
A young man stood a few feet away, kneeling in the soil with one hand deep in a flowerbed. His shirt was rolled at the sleeves, his hands were covered in earth, and the morning light caught on the sweat along his jaw. He moved with purpose but not rush, like he belonged to the land more than the estate.
He hadn't noticed her.
And for some reason, she didn't call out.
She just watched — curious, still. Something about him made the world quiet. He wasn't speaking, smiling, or trying to charm. He was simply there, alive in a way no one else in her life seemed to be.
Then, as if sensing her gaze, he looked up.
Their eyes met.
Not long. Not dramatically.
Just… a glance.
But something unspoken passed between them — not recognition, not electricity — just a ripple of awareness. A pause. The world adjusting itself, ever so slightly.
He looked away first, nodding politely before returning to his work.
Alina stared a moment longer.
Then turned her eyes back to the book, though her eyes didn't move across the page.
Because something had.
Shifted.
And in her chest, something wordless began to grow.
She didn't mean to stand.
At least, that's what Alina told herself.
One moment, her fingers were pressed between the pages of her book. The next, her feet moved on instinct, carrying her across the soft grass and toward the stranger whose presence had stilled something inside her.
He was trimming the edge of a rose bush now — gentle, deliberate.
The closer she got, the more she noticed the roughness of his hands, the quiet intensity in the way he moved. He wasn't dressed like the other workers on the estate. His shirt was worn, his boots dusted in soil, his sleeves rolled past his elbows to reveal forearms tanned by sun and streaked with the earth's memory.
"Roses," she said softly.
He paused but didn't look up immediately. "Yes," he replied, his voice calm, rich. "They needed pruning. Your gardeners haven't touched this side in a while."
"Our gardeners?" she echoed, a ghost of amusement in her tone. "Aren't you one of them?"
Now he looked at her — properly.
Dark eyes. Focused, observant. Unapologetically real. "New," he said simply. "Started yesterday."
Alina nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "They usually don't last long. Most find the grounds too big or the family too… demanding."
His mouth quirked. Almost a smile. "I've seen worse."
"Have you?"
He nodded, turning back to the bush and clipping a dead bloom with gentle fingers. "Flowers are simpler than people. If something's wrong, they show you. Wilt, rot, dryness — it's all there, honest."
"That sounds… nice," she said, quieter now.
He looked up again. "You don't sound convinced."
"I just don't think I've met many honest things in my life." Her words surprised even her.
A silence stretched.
Then: "Well… flowers don't lie."
She smiled, barely. "Is that why you work with them?"
"Maybe." He gave the rose bush a final glance, then stood and wiped his hands on his trousers. "Or maybe I just like watching something grow."
His gaze met hers again — steady, unreadable.
"What's your name?" she asked, though she wasn't sure why.
He hesitated for a beat. "Ansel."
She let the name settle in her mind.
"I'm Alina," she offered, even though he clearly already knew.
"I know," he said. Not arrogantly. Just fact.
Another silence passed — not awkward. Just full.
"Well," she finally said, taking a step back, "thank you for not letting the roses die."
He gave the faintest nod. "Thank you for noticing."
She walked away slowly, feeling the weight of his gaze linger — not invasive, not possessive, just aware.
And for the first time in a long while, the air around her felt lighter.
Alive.
Alina walked back to her bench with practiced grace, but her heartbeat betrayed her. The book still waited open where she left it, though she no longer had any intention of reading.
She sat down slowly, smoothing her skirt as she settled into the curve of the stone bench. From the corner of her eye, she watched Ansel return to the flowerbed — as if the brief conversation had never happened, as if he hadn't just tugged at something inside her chest she didn't yet understand.
He didn't speak again. Didn't acknowledge her presence.
But he hadn't walked away either.
He knelt beside the roses, shoulders moving with quiet rhythm. His fingers brushed petals like they were something sacred, and for the first time in a long while, Alina felt the difference between watching and truly seeing someone.
She let her eyes drop back to her book.
Then flicked upward — just once.
And caught him looking at her.
Not boldly. Not flirtatiously.
Just… observing. Curious. Still.
Their eyes met for a heartbeat.
He looked away first, reaching for a pair of shears, but his jaw tensed in a way that made her feel like maybe the glance had shaken him too.
A soft breeze stirred the roses, carrying their scent in waves. Alina turned a page without reading a word. Her fingers toyed with the edges, but her gaze kept drifting back — again and again.
He didn't look at her every time.
But often enough that she knew he noticed her noticing him.
Time slipped into something weightless between them — no schedule, no noise, no expectations. Just two strangers in a garden, surrounded by blooming things and unspoken questions.
And when Ansel stood to gather the tools beside him, their eyes met one last time.
Not long.
Not loud.
But this time, he offered her a nod — small, steady, and just for her.
And Alina… smiled.
~~~~~~~~~
The sun climbed higher in the sky, casting dappled shadows through the trellis above her. Alina had spent the last fifteen minutes pretending to read, her eyes following the same paragraph three times without grasping a single word.
When she finally glanced toward the rose bushes again, Ansel was gone.
A pang of something — disappointment, maybe — tugged at her chest.
She sighed and leaned back, resting her head against the cool stone. "Of course," she whispered to no one. "He has work to do, unlike me."
The garden, once brimming with quiet tension, now felt a little too still. She returned her gaze to the book, trying to give herself to the story again. Her fingers traced the lines of Catherine's longing on the page.
"You're reading Wuthering Heights," came a voice behind her — low, steady.
Alina jumped slightly, startled. She turned her head sharply to find Ansel standing a few steps away, a small bucket of clippings in one hand and a smear of dirt across his wrist. His expression was unreadable — not cold, not bold, but certainly not indifferent.
"I didn't hear you come back," she said.
He shrugged. "Didn't mean to startle you."
She smiled faintly, her heart settling. "You didn't."
He nodded toward the book. "You don't strike me as the kind of person who enjoys tortured love stories."
Alina tilted her head. "What kind of person do I strike you as, then?"
He hesitated. "Not one who lets herself be destroyed for someone else."
Alina blinked, the weight of his words unexpectedly heavy. "Maybe I admire Catherine because she did let herself be destroyed. And maybe… I understand why."
Ansel said nothing for a moment. Then quietly, "Still. It's a tragic kind of loyalty."
She looked at him, studying his face — the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the faint lines of exhaustion near his eyes. "Have you read it?"
He nodded. "Twice. Once for school. Once because I needed to make sense of it."
Her smile grew. "And did you?"
"No," he said honestly. "But I stopped blaming her."
There was a long, thoughtful pause.
"Madam," he added then, as if remembering who she was supposed to be. "Forgive me. I shouldn't be—"
"Don't call me that," she interrupted gently.
He looked surprised. "What should I call you, then?"
"Alina," she said. "Just Alina."
The silence that followed was soft and intimate. Something shifted again — subtle, but definite. She had drawn a line and then quietly erased it.
Ansel nodded once, eyes still on hers. "Alright then… Alina."
And somehow, the way he said her name felt more real than any of the champagne toasts and glittering congratulations from the night before.