The breakfast room still carried the scent of roasted almonds and cinnamon bread, but Eliza felt none of its warmth. Her father had spoken with that particular measured tone he always used when trying to sound kind while issuing orders. This time, it was the Duke of Harland, "a stable match," "well-positioned," "eager to meet you at the ball." The words were meant to comfort, to remind her of duty, of legacy, of queenship. Instead, they wrapped around her like chains, glinting beneath her skin.
She had nodded politely. Sipped her tea. Bit into toast she didn't taste. But the moment she was excused, she moved quickly through the palace, down hallways dappled with gold, her slippers barely whispering against the marble.
She needed air. Not the rehearsed conversation of court, not the powdered scent of her ladies, and certainly not the looming presence of masked suitors and dance cards. She needed something alive.
The greenhouse waited beyond the western wing, nestled like a secret behind ivy-covered stone. It had once been her mother's haven. Now, it was Eliza's escape.
She pushed open the wrought iron door and stepped into a breath of paradise.
Humidity wrapped around her, soft and damp, carrying the perfume of jasmine and crushed green leaves. Vines curled along glass panes. Orchids opened their strange faces toward the light. Tiny insects buzzed like secrets among the flowers. The sound of the door closing behind her was muffled, like falling beneath water.
Eliza exhaled, finally alone. She wandered deeper between the ferns and hanging baskets, her fingers trailing over leaves. Her gown brushed the dirt-streaked tiles as she paused beneath a flowering arch of white roses.
It was only then that she heard it, a soft footfall. The faint scrape of a boot.
She turned.
He stood at the threshold, haloed in filtered light, the tall figure with ink stains on his cuffs and shadows under his eyes.
The painter.
Marek.
For a breathless second, they didn't speak. The silence between them rippled like silk caught in wind.
"I didn't know anyone else came here," she said, her voice too quiet, too aware of itself.
"I might say the same," he replied. His tone was low, almost reverent, as if he'd stumbled into a cathedral instead of a glass house full of vines.
She didn't step back. Nor did he advance. But something in the air shifted, thickened, turned molten between them.
"I come here when I can't think," she confessed, brushing a petal with the back of her hand. "When my thoughts grow too loud."
Marek's gaze softened. "Then we are the same."
They stood with the garden pulsing quietly around them. Bees hummed. Sunlight streamed through misted panes, catching on Eliza's hair and painting her like something mythic. His fingers twitched against his side.
He didn't mean to come here. Or maybe he had. Maybe he'd wandered on purpose, lured by instinct more than reason. He told himself it was coincidence. He lied to himself as easily as he once did to kings.
Eliza turned toward a flowering vine climbing high above her. She reached, but the vine was just out of reach. Her fingers brushed a leaf and missed.
"Allow me," he said before he could think better of it.
He moved behind her, his presence immediate and close. He reached for the bloom, his arm brushing hers. For a heartbeat, they touched, fabric against fabric, heat against heat.
Her breath caught.
His fingers closed around the vine, and he handed it to her slowly, lingering as if he didn't want to let go.
She looked at him then, her lips parted. Something unspoken danced between them, curiosity, defiance, a question neither had dared put into words.
"Why…" she began, but faltered.
He tilted his head. "Why what?"
"Why do you look at me like that?"
His throat bobbed with a swallowed answer. Then, softly: "Because I've never seen anything more forbidden."
The words hung in the air like smoke, fragile and impossible to contain.
Eliza didn't speak. She stepped closer.
Her bodice brushed the edge of his coat. She was close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, to smell the faint scent of ink and smoke and something darker, something male.
He didn't step back.
Their hands found each other. Not clasped, not quite. Just fingertips brushing, testing the shape of this silence between them.
The spell began to crack, too much need, too many nights of denial pressed into the tiny space between them.
And then, it broke.
Their mouths met.
At first, it was slow, an echo of breath, a question in the dark. Her lips were soft, unsure. His touch was reverent, like he feared she might vanish. But the kiss deepened, pulling them both under. She rose on her toes. He wrapped an arm around her waist. Her fingers tangled in the fabric of his collar.
When he cupped her face, she melted into him.
He tilted her back slightly, their bodies curving like vines drawn toward each other. His other hand, god help him, drifted to her side, then slid, almost without his permission, along the curve of her bodice. His thumb grazed the swell of her breast, just under the edge of fabric, and she gasped into his mouth.
That sound. That sound would haunt him.
He wanted more. He wanted everything. But,
Voices.
Laughter and footsteps, distant but approaching. Somewhere beyond the greenhouse door, life resumed.
They broke apart like lightning had struck.
She pressed fingers to her lips, wide-eyed. He stepped back, chest heaving, jaw clenched.
Neither spoke.
She turned, hastily smoothing her skirts. He stared at the floor, then at her retreating back.
Whatever that was, it couldn't happen again
But it already had.