Alexander’s POV
I hadn’t set foot in the Conservatory since the day my father died.
For ten years, this structure had been a mausoleum of glass and iron, a place where the air was too thick, the scents too cloying, and the memories too sharp to bear. It was the place where my mother had taught me the Latin names of flowers I didn’t care about, and where my father had slowly, agonizingly, lost his mind waiting for a ghost to return.
I hated it. I hated the humidity that made my shirt cling to my back, and I hated the riot of uncontrolled life that mocked the cold precision I had built my existence around.
But as I led Lilian deeper into the foliage, her hand small and warm in mine, I realized I didn’t hate it today. Today, the air didn’t smell like grief; it smelled of vanilla and rain
