They reached the Avienne Hall just as the last hues of dusk melted into night. The lamps that lined the stone pathway flickered to life one by one, casting golden pools on the gravel.
Callum stepped into the foyer first.
It smelled different now.
Fresher.
Brighter.
His eyes swept the surroundings automatically. The rug had been changed—something softer, woven in hues of muted green and cream. A low shelf stood near the entryway now, home to a trio of succulents in tiny ceramic pots. Ferns curled out of an aged brass planter by the staircase.
His gaze drifted upward, drawn toward the hallway wall where the familiar portraits hung. Each frame gleamed faintly under a lover's touch of fresh dust. But then, his eyes stopped at a new addition: their wedding picture, perfectly nestled among the others.
In that breathless moment, his heart quieted as layers of deep emotion and broken hope washed over him. The photograph captured more than just a moment in time; it was a repository of all the vows, secret promises, and shared dreams that were shattered.
"Dahlia," he whispered. A bittersweet warmth unfurled within him—a longing for what had been, intermingled with gratitude for every fragile, beautiful memory that remained.
It was as if the simple act of dusting had polished not only the frames but also his perceptions, reminding him that amidst sorrow and loss, there was still a place in his soul for the subtle radiance of rebuilding.
And in the quiet air of their shared house—he realized: it no longer felt like a place hastily bought by two fathers to seal a business alliance.
It felt… lived in.
He walked to their room.
He opened it.
It wasn't locked.
Inside, the room was bathed in amber light from a wall sconce she must've lit earlier. The curtains were pulled open to the moonlit garden. Books were stacked neatly beside the bed, and on the windowsill, a lavender plant stretched toward the night sky.
The colors were bold but soft—dusty rose, emerald, pale blue.
Her desk had hand-penned letters stacked under a stone paperweight, and on the dresser, a framed photo of Sera in uniform with her father, both saluting, faces unreadable.
There was nothing of him here.
And yet, for a moment, he stood there longer than he meant to—absorbing a life that had always been more disciplined, more colorful, more certain than his.
---
Downstairs, soft voices filtered in from the kitchen.
He didn't make a sound as he descended the stairs.
From the hallway, hidden by shadow, he saw her—Seraphine—with her sleeves rolled up, speaking to the maids in her usual calm tone. Her hair was loosely tied now, a few strands falling as she reached for vegetables.
She wasn't directing.
She was doing.
Slicing, stirring, tasting.
Callum leaned against the archway quietly, unnoticed.
A flicker of warmth spread in his chest—confusing in its simplicity.
She didn't belong in this place only because a deal demanded it.
She belonged because she was making space for herself.
For both of them.
And for the first time since their engagement, he found the silence between them… comforting, not cruel.
He didn't move.
He just watched her, her movements quiet and steady, the soft laughter of the staff mixing with the crackle of oil and the bubbling of soup.
And somehow, without meaning to, he stayed there longer than he ever had.
---
The crash of porcelain shattered through the estate's dining hall, followed by a sharp gasp—a sound that struck Callum like a knife.
He turned just in time to see the steaming dish tip forward, the scalding liquid cascading down Seraphine's shoulder.
She flinched. Her breath caught, but she didn't make a sound.
Callum was already moving. He didn't hesitate. He didn't think.
His hands were on her before the maids could react, fingers gripping the fabric of her dress at her back—pulling, exposing the burned skin beneath.
The maids startled, some reaching to help, others frozen in uncertainty.
"Get the ointment kit," he ordered, his voice sharp, leaving no room for delay.
One of the younger maids bolted toward the medicine cabinet.
Callum's gaze locked on the angry red blotch blooming across her back, his jaw tightening. His movements were swift and precise, pressing a cool cloth to the wound, his touch firm but careful.
Sera stiffened beneath his hands—but not in pain.
She should feel it. The sting, the raw ache. Should recoil from the heat that had seared her skin.
But she felt none of it.
Only the urgency in Callum's grip, the intensity in his eyes, and the way his hands steadied her with a certainty made the burn feel secondary.
She swallowed.
"I'm fine, it's not that hot," she murmured, though even she wasn't sure if she meant the wound—or the way his presence overshadowed it entirely.
Callum didn't answer.
He only continued tending to her, his focus unwavering—as if her pain was something he refused to let her bear alone.
The maid trembled, hands pressed to the cold stone floor, her voice tight with desperation. "Please, madam, sir, forgive me—I meant no harm."
Callum's fury surged, his voice sharp enough to cut through the chamber. "Do you think an apology is enough?" His fists clenched at his sides, his composure threatening to snap.
Before he could unleash the full weight of his anger, Sera stepped forward, placing a steady hand on his arm. "Go and tend to your hand. When you are ready, come back and join us for dinner." There was a quiet dignity in her tone, a soft directive that balanced firmness with compassion.
As the maid bowed her head in silent acknowledgment, she rose slowly and retreated.
In that moment, Callum's fierce demeanor faltered. Stunned by the calmness in Sera's words.
Callum turned to her, his breath ragged, but her unwavering gaze held him still.
Callum, caught between his lingering frustration and the startling gentleness of Sera's gesture, could do little but stare at her. "You—" His voice faltered.
Sera only offered him a knowing look before turning away. The moment hung between them, fragile yet profound.