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Passion and Rose
Chapter Three
The week dragged on like eternity for Kailah, trapped within the marble corridors of the Veylor estate. Yet there was one place she was allowed to go without Adrian's shadow suffocating her—his grandfather's wing of the house.
Lord Henrik Veylor, the old lion of the family, was nearly eighty, but his spirit burned brighter than men half his age. His laughter carried through the halls, his cane tapping with deliberate rhythm as he moved. He loved Adrian, but there was one person who could melt even his steel composure—Kailah.
When she entered his grand sitting room, Henrik's face lit with genuine warmth. "My Rose!" he greeted her, using the nickname he had given her since she was five. "Come, sit beside an old man. You've neglected me for far too long."
Kailah smiled despite her mood and kissed his cheek. "You know it's not me neglecting you, Grandpa Henrik. It's your grandson locking me away like a prisoner."
Henrik chuckled, shaking his head. "Ah, my Adrian. Always so serious. Always afraid the world will steal what he treasures." He tapped his cane against the floor. "But he forgets—when you were small, it was you who chased him endlessly, not the other way around."
Kailah blushed. "I did not!"
"Oh, you did," Henrik said, his eyes twinkling. "You wouldn't let the boy breathe without you by his side. You'd follow him through the gardens, tug his sleeve, demand his attention. And do you remember what you used to say to me?"
Kailah tilted her head. "What?"
"That you were going to marry my grandson," Henrik said with a mischievous grin. "You declared it with all the seriousness of a queen giving orders. I told you then, 'Little Rose, Adrian will never survive you.' And I was right."
Kailah laughed despite herself, her chest tightening with the bittersweet weight of memory. She remembered it well—the long afternoons when Adrian would pretend to ignore her, but somehow never walked too far away. She remembered dragging him by the hand to see butterflies, demanding he share his books, pestering him until he finally gave in with that quiet sigh of his.
Her smile softened. "I was just a child. I didn't know what I was saying."
Henrik leaned closer, his voice dropping. "You knew enough. You saw something in him none of us could. And don't let his silence fool you, Kailah. That boy may rule the world with an iron hand, but his heart… ah, his heart was stolen long ago. And it was by you."
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That night, unable to sleep, Kailah wandered the east wing of the mansion and found herself standing before a set of tall golden doors. They gleamed faintly in the moonlight, their intricate carvings catching her eye.
The Castillo.
Her lips parted as memory swept over her. She had been only seven when she pointed at the crumbling ruins of an old summer house on the estate and declared she wanted a castle of her own. "A golden Castillo!" she had demanded with childlike stubbornness, her little hands on her hips.
Adrian, then nineteen, had arched an eyebrow. "A castle?"
"Yes," she had insisted. "Made of gold. For me. Promise me you'll build it, Adrian."
He had said nothing then. Just looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before finally nodding.
She had forgotten. But he hadn't.
And here it was—restored, perfected, adorned with touches of gold that shimmered like sunlight. Her Castillo. A birthday present she had once demanded in innocence, brought to life with ruthless precision.
Kailah's chest tightened. She whispered into the silence, "Why do you keep giving me everything I ask for, Adrian, and still make me feel like I have nothing?"
Behind her, she didn't hear the soft footsteps in the hall, nor see the shadow that lingered at a distance—Adrian himself, watching quietly, as he always had.
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