Their new home stood at the edge of the old capital—a solitary estate carved between mist-laced hills and a private forest road. Its silhouette, dark against the soft morning haze, seemed to whisper of secrets and promises long fulfilled and yet to be.
Avienne Hall.
A name chosen by neither of them—a gift from fathers whose ambitions forged alliances and whose legacies demanded silence in the corridors of memory. The white-stone pillars and black wrought-iron gates glinted in the gentle light, while the garden outside bloomed like silence itself—controlled, restrained, a delicate tapestry of carefully pruned hedges and flowers aching for lost warmth. This sprawling manor, built to house a small retinue, could easily shelter two dozen souls, yet somehow it always felt too vast, too empty.
Callum never looked up as the heavy gates opened. His expression remained locked, an unreadable mask of duty and evasion, as if the ritual of arrival was a well-rehearsed escape.
Seraphine stepped out of the car first.
The wind greeted her with a cool, gentle caress, carrying whispers of the forest and the distant echo of morning dew. For a moment, she felt as though she were entering not a home, but a house—one crafted for strangers who wore her skin and bore his name, each stone and petal a reminder of a legacy that weighed on them both.
Inside, the manor exuded a quiet grandeur. The air was rich with the scent of aged oak and freshly applied varnish. New things are displayed. Whispered promises of untold stories—a pristine beginning, yet unlived.
Removing her gloves with deliberate care, Seraphine glanced at Callum.
"Which room?" she asked softly, the question laced with hope and a hint of defiance.
He didn't even meet her gaze.
"We'll have separate rooms." His tone brooked no discussion—it was a command, as immovable as the iron gates outside.
Seraphine's calm voice met his dismissiveness with quiet steel.
"No."
He blinked, eyes sharpening in surprise and perhaps recognition of her silent rebellion.
"I said—"
"We're married, Callum," she interjected evenly. "I didn't come this far to sleep behind another locked door."
Without another word, he turned abruptly and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the eastern hall. The sound of a door clicking closed trailed behind him, a punctuation to the unspoken argument.
In the dim corridor, Seraphine's persistence grew. She knocked on his door, voice resolute, "I won't stop knocking unless you open the door."
Yet stubborn as her convictions, Callum's door remained unyielding—a silent wall she could not breach.
Frustration mingled with determination as she questioned every staff member, only to learn that Callum, sent his assistant Vernon long before to get all the keys.
Left with no choice, Seraphine chose her room. But even as she arranged her few belongings, her things seemed unsettled.
Every folded towel and placed book echoed a quiet loneliness, a prelude to what this home was beginning to feel like—a space defined by absence and restraint. Somehow, she's determined to go against the predestined sorrow.
---
Before dawn, Callum slipped away without a word to the housekeeper, without a murmur to Seraphine.
In the foyer, his cologne—a faint, lingering mix of cedar and old secrets—remained like a ghost. Outside, the low hum of the car engine faded into the growing light, an indifferent counterpoint to the quiet storm inside.
The hours passed in their own measured cadence. Seraphine met with the estate staff, rearranged room placements, organized the pantry, and set up a shared office with meticulous care.
She scribbled notes on a calendar for charity balls and political banquets, each mark an effort to assert control in a new life. She refused assistance with her dressing, brewed her tea perfectly alone, each act a silent claim to her identity.
But as noon turned to dusk, Callum did not return. Not for lunch. Not for dinner.
By midnight, the manor had grown unbearably quiet—too cold, too empty. The spacious halls echoed with the soft click of her heels as she tapped her feet on the floor, her second cup of coffee trembling in her hand. Before her lay an untouched meal destined for him—a stark, silent reminder of his absence.
Unable to endure the quiet any longer, she rose and left the house, driven by a churning need to find him.
Virell's main tower loomed above the sleeping city. Its dark windows glowed dimly with emergency lights in a lobby locked tight by night guards. There was no sign of Callum.
She tried calling him. No answer.
She tried reaching his assistant. Only a voicemail.
Desperation edged into her dignity as she roamed the streets—one bar, one alley, one lonely sidewalk—each step fueled by anger, worry, and an overwhelming need to reclaim what seemed lost.
Then, at last, she found him.
Slumped against a graffiti-covered wall, half-hidden between a shuttered flower shop and a battered newspaper stand, Callum was a stark portrait of ruin. His scant coat hung askew, his shirt untucked, and a crushed cigarette box lay discarded beside his outstretched hand.
His breath came shallow and ragged, and his tie, loose and stained with the residue of a failed elegance, hinted at a man unmoored. He was drunk. Wasted. Cast aside by the night as if he had been thrown there by the world's unforgiving gravity.
Seraphine did not shout, nor did her heart tremble with fury. Instead, she sank to his level. Kneeling on the cold, damp pavement, her hand reached up to caress his cheek—a small, tender gesture amid chaos. His skin, cool against her palm, was a stark contrast to the fevered pulse of her veins. His lashes fluttered weakly at her touch, and a low groan escaped him—a sound heavy with disorientation.
"Dahlia…?" he murmured, a name half-remembered and half-forgotten as he struggled for clarity.
Her hand stilled, caught between lingering memories and the present crisis. He didn't fully see her. He seemed lost in a haze, searching beyond the physical, as though he sought the echo of someone who had vanished.
Yet, Seraphine pulled him close. One arm slid firmly around his shoulders while her other gently nudged his coat back into place, a measured act of care.
"It's me," she whispered, voice low and resolute amid the whispers of the city night.
Callum's eyes flickered open, hazy at first then gradually sharpening as he struggled to anchor himself. Confusion mingled with recognition.
"Let's go home, Callum," she murmured, soft but firm.
In that quiet promise, his head rested against her shoulder—a silent capitulation of broken pride and weary surrender. No protest came. No words. Just surrender to the fractured lull of broken sleep and the aching uncertainty of a man who no longer knew where home truly was.
But as they drew near the car, he murmured, "Sera... I am hurt."