Forced to marry my husband's killer

Chapter Twelve

The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of the dining room, casting a warm, golden glow over the breakfast table. Elena sat with Cecilia and Lily, quietly savoring her tea, still getting used to the rhythms of this grand yet unfamiliar mansion. It was a pleasant change from the tension of the previous days, a brief moment of calm that she hoped would last.

Cecilia was buttering a slice of toast when the butler, a tall man with a grave demeanor, approached the table. He cleared his throat politely, drawing their attention. “Mrs. Caldwell,” he began, addressing Cecilia, “I thought I should inform you that the rest of the family left early this morning.”

Cecilia looked up, her eyebrows slightly raised. “Oh? Where have they gone?”

The butler replied, “Vivian and her husband have returned to their own residence, and Mrs. Caldwell has gone on another one of her business trips.”

Elena blinked in surprise, glancing between Cecilia and the butler. “I thought this was the family house,” she said, her curiosity piqued.

Cecilia smiled gently. “It is, my dear. But Vivian and her husband have a place of their own, not far from here. They like to claim they live here, but it’s more out of convenience than necessity. As for Victor’s mother, she’s always traveling. Says it’s for ‘business,’ but who knows what she’s really up to.” She gave a soft chuckle, her eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. “ Have you met Marcus, Victor’s younger brother?"

"I haven’t met him yet,” Elena replied, curiosity evident in her voice.

Cecilia chuckled, a knowing smile crossing her face. “Ah, Marcus. You’ll meet him soon enough, I’m sure. He’s a bit of a wild card, that one.”

They continued their breakfast in relative silence, the only sound being the clinking of cutlery against fine china and the soft humming of Cecilia as she poured more tea. Elena found herself glancing over at Lily, who was quietly munching on a piece of toast, her eyes darting between the adults with a hint of caution. She seemed more relaxed today, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“Who takes care of Lily when everyone is so busy?” Elena asked, her voice gentle, trying to understand the little girl’s world better.

“The nanny usually does,” Cecilia replied, her tone kind. “But she’s off for the weekend. Lily is quite independent, though. Aren’t you, sweetheart?” She smiled at Lily, who nodded shyly.

Elena’s heart went out to Lily. It couldn’t be easy, being so young and surrounded by a family that seemed to be constantly in motion, each member absorbed in their own affairs. She wondered if Victor had any idea how much his daughter needed him, needed stability.

After breakfast, Cecilia suggested a walk in the garden. “It’s such a lovely day,” she said brightly. “And I think you’ll find the garden quite enchanting. Victor’s done a bit of work there himself, back when he had more time for such things.”

Intrigued, Elena agreed, and together, with Lily trotting alongside them, they made their way through the mansion’s grand hallways and out into the sprawling garden. The morning air was crisp and fresh, the scent of dew and earth mingling with the faint perfume of flowers.

They wandered down a stone path, lined with blooming roses and neatly trimmed hedges. Cecilia led them to a small corner of the garden, more secluded than the rest, where a variety of flowers grew in wild, beautiful disarray. The colors were vibrant—lavender, soft pinks, deep blues—and they seemed to sway gently in the breeze, as if dancing to a silent melody.

“These were planted by Victor,” Cecilia said softly, her eyes distant with memory. “Back when he was happier, before… well, before everything changed.”

Elena knelt down, her fingers brushing over the delicate petals of a lavender flower. She could hardly imagine the Victor she knew tending to a garden, planting flowers for the sheer joy of it. It was such a stark contrast to the man she had come to know—the cold, calculating businessman, the stern husband who had married her out of some twisted sense of revenge.

“Why did he do this?” Elena asked, more to herself than to Cecilia. “Plant these flowers, I mean.”

Cecilia smiled gently. “He did it for Isabelle, his first wife. He was in love, truly in love. He wanted to create something beautiful for her, something that would last. He even took care of them himself, despite his busy schedule. I suppose it was his way of showing his love.”

This was a surprising side of the man she married just some hours ago. A man capable of such tenderness, of such thoughtful gestures. It was hard to reconcile with the image she had of him—the ruthless, almost cruel man who seemed to find satisfaction in her discomfort.

She wondered again, for the thousandth time, if Victor had truly had a hand in her husband Daniel’s death. Could a man who had once planted flowers for love also be capable of such a cold, calculating act? The thought unsettled her, but she kept it to herself, not wanting to burden Cecilia with her doubts.