Chapter 3 The Garden at Dusk

Chapter 3: The Garden at Dusk

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The sky was bleeding amber when I wandered to the back of the estate grounds, following nothing but instinct. It felt as though something was pulling me-an invisible thread tugging at my spine, drawing me away from the sterile halls and cold chandeliers of the D'Amelio mansion.

And then I saw it.

A greenhouse. Forgotten. Tucked behind a curtain of overgrown ivy, half-consumed by nature. The glass was smudged with moss, the frame rusted, like a secret someone had tried to bury but never quite could.

I stepped inside.

The air shifted the moment the door creaked open. Thick. Earthy. Heavy with memory. The scent of damp soil and dying roses curled into my lungs. The silence wasn't dead-it was listening.

Inside, chaos bloomed in silence. Vines had swallowed flower beds, and thorns ruled the walkways. Sunlight filtered in through the shattered ceiling, catching on floating dust like gold confetti from a forgotten celebration.

In the center stood a wrought iron bench. Bent. Weathered. Lonely.

I walked to it and sat, brushing away dead petals. Something told me he had been here-Christopher. This place felt like him. Beautiful in ruin. Powerful in its stillness.

Then I saw it-the carving.

C.D. + A.B.

My fingers traced the etched initials. Rough. Intimate. Permanent.

Who was A.B.?

"Curious little bird," a voice said behind me, low and unhurried.

I didn't jump. I didn't need to. I knew it was him.

Christopher stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, as if the greenhouse belonged to him-and maybe it did. He wore a black sweater that clung to the hard lines of his chest, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair slightly tousled as though he'd run his hands through it moments ago. Casual and lethal.

"You have a habit of appearing when I'm not ready," I said quietly.

"And you have a habit of wandering where you shouldn't."

He stepped inside, boots crunching over broken glass and dead stems.

"I didn't mean to intrude."

"You did." He stopped a foot from me. "But I'm not angry."

He sat beside me. Close. Too close. The bench dipped under his weight, bringing our bodies just shy of touching. My heart stuttered, unsure if it should beat faster from fear or anticipation.

"What is this place?" I asked.

His eyes didn't leave the initials.

"Memories," he said. "Ghosts. A grave for things I shouldn't still want."

My mouth went dry. "A.B.?"

He hesitated.

"Aurelia Blackwell."

He said her name like it was a prayer and a curse.

"We were supposed to get married. She died three weeks before the wedding."

"What happened?"

His jaw tightened. "She drowned. Lakewood. The police said it was an accident. I never believed them."

I didn't speak. The air between us thickened with something too heavy to name. Pain, maybe. Regret.

"You remind me of her," he said.

I turned sharply. "That's not fair."

"No, it's not." His voice dropped lower. "You're softer. But you have the same fire. The same ache in your eyes."

"Maybe I'm just lonely."

He reached out and touched my cheek, fingers feather-light. My skin buzzed.

"Maybe," he whispered. "But there's something else in you too."

His hand drifted to the side of my neck, tracing the edge of my collarbone. My breath hitched.

"You shouldn't be doing this," I said.

"Probably not." His thumb brushed my jaw. "But I can't stop thinking about you. The way you move. The way you look at me like you want to be caught."

I should've pulled away.

I should've slapped him, screamed at him, run back to my sterile, perfect husband.

But I didn't.

Because I was drowning, and this man-this broken, dangerous man-was the only thing that made me feel alive.

"I married your son," I whispered.

He smiled faintly. "You married a man who left you here like an unwanted heirloom."

I stared at him. "What do you want from me?"

His lips hovered just above mine. "Everything you're afraid to admit."

The moment hung-on the edge of madness, desire, and consequence.

And then-he pulled away.

Just enough to drive me insane.

"If I kiss you," he said, "I won't stop."

My breath came in ragged waves. "Then don't start."

He stood.

"You should go back inside, Ivana."

I watched him walk away, spine straight, jaw tense-as if leaving me took everything he had.

The moment he disappeared behind the ivy, I collapsed onto the bench, chest heaving, skin burning with what almost happened.

I was falling.

And I hadn't even touched the bottom yet.