Late February – Markov Estate
Jay didn't have training that morning.
It wasn't a gift. It was a delay.
The absence of barking commands and steel clashing in the courtyard should've felt like relief, but to Jay, it only made the silence louder. He rose later than usual, shoulders sore from the previous day, and dressed slower than expected—partly because he could, partly because he didn't want to go where he was going.
He wasn't due at a meeting, a briefing, or a sparring session. He was going to see his mother.
He took the side path out of the east wing, boots crunching lightly over the gravel. The estate loomed behind him, quiet and regal as always—stone walls soaked in tradition, legacy, and the weight of unspoken rules.
The trail curved toward the garden wing, concealed by thick hedges and tall fruiting trees. He passed under an ivy-covered arch and through a wrought-iron gate until he reached the greenhouse. Its glass panels reflected the pale sky, stretching in domed layers over iron ribs like the skeleton of a forgotten cathedral.
Inside, the warmth hit first.
Moist air. Flowering scents. Earth. Life.
Jay closed the door behind him and stepped into another world.
Mother was already there.
She stood near the middle, tending to a wide row of orange camellias, her movements slow and careful. She wore a soft wool cardigan, the sleeves rolled up, her silver ring glinting faintly as her fingers brushed over petals. No earrings. No heels. Just slippers and silence.
"You're limping," she said softly, without turning.
"I hide it better on weekdays," Jay muttered, stepping off the path and onto the soft mossy flooring near her.
"Mikhail still believes pain is a character builder."
"He might be right."
"He might be broken," she corrected.
Jay offered a quiet smile.
They stood there for a moment. The greenhouse creaked gently as the breeze outside nudged its glass walls. A cluster of bees buzzed lazily near the lemon trees.
"You haven't visited in a while," Celeste said.
"I've been busy becoming someone I'm not."
She turned, expression unreadable.
"And how's that going?"
Jay shrugged. "I'm almost convincing."
Celeste looked at him. "To them, maybe."
Jay moved to the edge of a shallow pond lined with lilies. He crouched, watching koi swim in slow arcs beneath the surface.
"I miss being invisible," he said.
"Do you?" she asked. "Or do you just miss being seen for the right reasons?"
He didn't answer right away. A gold-speckled fish darted past, then vanished under a leaf.
"I check my Phone daily," he said.
Celeste straightened slightly.
"Tyler's message was flagged and recorded. So was one from Sofia. And Emma."
Her eyes softened, but her voice didn't. "And what did you do?"
"I deleted the alerts."
She didn't smile, but the faintest crease near her lips told him she approved.
"They still write," he said. "Even when I don't answer. I haven't even read them."
Celeste walked slowly over to the watering basin, filled a silver canister, and began tending to the orchids beside him.
"That means they haven't given up."
"I have," he muttered.
"No. You're surviving. There's a difference."
He closed his eyes.
"I think Father wants me to fail," he admitted.
Celeste paused mid-pour.
"I think he's watching me so closely not to guide me—but to confirm I'm not enough."
When she finally spoke, it was low. "He wants you to break so he can rebuild you, his way."
Jay scoffed. "What if I already broke?"
"Then let it show," she said. "Let the cracks be yours. Not his."
Jay opened his eyes and looked at her.
"Do you think I'll ever be free of this place?"
Celeste tilted her head. "No. But I think you can carry it without letting it swallow you."
He sat down on the stone bench under a hanging vine. For a long time, he said nothing. The greenhouse ticked with the soft sounds of birds outside and the hum of bees inside.
Finally, he said, "I don't think they'll wait forever."
"Them?" she asked.
"Emma. Amaya. Tyler. Even Yuki."
She nodded slowly. "Then don't make them wait too long."
Jay looked up at the glass ceiling.
"It's late February already."
Celeste joined him on the bench.
"It'll be spring soon."
He glanced at her. "Do flowers ever forget how to bloom?"
She smiled. "No. But sometimes they need to be reminded there's still sunlight."
He rested his head back and closed his eyes. For the first time in days, his breath left his lungs without pressure.
They sat like that until the bells rang again.
But this time, he didn't flinch.