"Some prisons have no bars—just rose gardens, soft smiles, and the quiet wrath of a man who never learned to share."_Unknown
Maeve wandered into the garden like she often did now, drawn to its quietness. The air smelled like lavender and sun-warmed soil. She wore a gray and white checkered sweater with black_ slightly baggy_ jeans. She sat on a wrought-iron bench tucked beneath an arch of climbing roses, the only place that didn't feel like it watched her.
She was flipping through a book when a shadow interrupted the sun.
A young man—mid-twenties, light brown curls tucked under his cap—stood before her, holding a single blossom between his fingers.
"This," he said, offering a soft smile, "is the Juliet rose. My favorite. Sweet scent, delicate color. It's rare. Thought nothing could be more beautiful—until now that is."
Maeve blinked, startled.
He chuckled, a bit embarrassed. "Sorry. That was… probably too much."
She offered a polite smile, unsure how to respond.
"I'm Kai," he added quickly. "I tend this part of the garden."
She opened her mouth to return the introduction, but he beat her to it.
"Maeve," he said gently, her name like a secret he already knew. "The new Lady of the house. Welcome."
She gave a slight nod. "Thank you."
"I hope I get to see you around more." With a final smile, he walked off, leaving the rose behind on the bench.
---
Anton stepped inside the study, pausing before Levi's desk.
"A maid came to me," he said. "Reported that the gardener—Kai, I believe—was speaking a little too freely with your wife."
Levi didn't look back at him, just continued his push-ups . "Too freely?"
"Complimented her. Stuck around a little too long."
Silence.
Levi stood up, he sipped from his bottle, then faced Anton. Cold. Sharp.
"Send him packing."
Anton blinked. "You're firing him?"
Walking out of the gym room, done with his workout.
"Anyone who doesn't fear me enough to stay away from what's mine," he said simply, "has no right to stay in my premises."
---
Maeve passed the laundry corridor when she heard the whispers.
"…didn't even get to say goodbye."
"I heard they packed him out that same night—just like that."
"Over a flower, can you imagine?"
She paused, then found Noelle setting a table in the sunroom.
"Is it true?" Maeve asked. "The gardener… Kai. He left?"
Noelle looked up, surprised. "You heard."
Maeve frowned. "Did he do something wrong?"
Noelle hesitated, then straightened a vase. "A maid mentioned he was talking to you. That he might've been… friendly."
"It was just a conversation," Maeve murmured.
"Maybe," Noelle said quietly, "Levi didn't like that he spoke to you."
Maeve said nothing.
But as she walked back to her room, she felt the walls close in a little more. Not physically—but like a quiet cage, velvet-lined and invisible, reminding her:
She was seen.
She was owned.
***
Later that day.
The room was nearly swallowed in dust and silence. Heavy curtains blocked out the sun, and a thick cloth had been thrown over the grand piano like a forgotten memory. Maeve pushed open the door slowly, feeling like she had stumbled into a sacred place no one spoke of.
She approached the piano, fingers brushing over the dust-laced cover.
It hadn't been touched in years.
With gentle hands, she lifted the cloth away, revealing ivory keys dulled with time. The seat creaked softly as she sat, unsure if she should even be here. But something—loneliness, curiosity, need—guided her fingers to the keys.
She played softly.
The notes came slow, hesitant at first, then steadier—a fragile melody that wrapped around the silence like a blanket. It was not perfect, but it was warm. The kind of sound that could soften even winter.
She didn't hear him enter.
"You play?" Levi's voice broke the quiet, low and even.
She turned, startled.
He was leaning on the doorway, eyes distant—not on her, but on something behind her. A memory.
"I didn't know anyone remembered this room," she said gently.
"I used to play," he said after a beat. "Once."
There was something unspoken in the way he stood. A flash in his eyes, almost haunted. His mother—sitting in their warm living room, playing wholeheartedly.
"I don't really play," Maeve said, looking down at the keys. "Just… a melody I remembered."
"For someone who doesn't play…" he said slowly, "that was really good."
His words held weight. Almost too much for a simple compliment.
"Thank you."
He took a breath, eyes scanning the room, then returning to her.
"Don't let the piano gather dust again," he said. "If you're going to stay… fill this place with something other than silence."
And just like that, he turned and left—his footsteps fading into the hall, but the echo of his words stayed behind.