Page 26 of Wisteria and Cloves

"Miles is correct, if inelegant," Julian said, his voice carefully controlled. "Your parents have no claim on you anymore, Lilianna. None whatsoever." He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "And you are not, nor could you ever be, damaged goods."

The conviction in his voice made something crack open inside my chest. I'd heard those words—damaged goods—so often from my mother that they'd become part of how I saw myself. Hearing Julian reject them so completely felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

"Why don't we get you inside?" Christopher suggested gently, breaking the tension. "We can continue this conversation somewhere more comfortable."

I nodded gratefully, suddenly aware that we were standing on a public street where anyone might observe us. My parents haddrilled into me that family matters should never be discussed where outsiders might overhear.

Julian seemed to sense my discomfort, stepping back to give me space while still maintaining that protective presence. "Of course. You must be exhausted from the week you've had."

Christopher bounded ahead to hold the blue door open, his enthusiasm infectious despite the heavy turn our conversation had taken. "Wait until you see your suite," he said, practically vibrating with excitement. "We may have gone a bit overboard."

As we climbed the front steps, I caught my first glimpse of the interior through the open doorway. Where my family's estate was all cold marble and formal arrangements, this felt warm and lived-in. Rich hardwood floors gleamed under soft lighting, and I could see comfortable furniture arranged for actual conversation rather than display.

"Why don’t you two” glancing to Miles and Christopher, “bring her belongings inside.” Julian paused at the threshold, his hand hovering near—but not quite touching—the small of my back.

"May I?" he asked, the simple courtesy making my throat tight with unexpected emotion. I nodded, and his palm settled lightly against my back as he guided me inside. The warmth of his touch radiated through the thin fabric of my dress, grounding me as I stepped into my new life.

Chapter Nine

Lilianna

The door closed behind us with a gentle thud, sealing off the outside world. I stood in the entryway, absorbing my surroundings with wonder. The foyer opened into a spacious living area where sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating built-in bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling—not arranged for show like in my parents' home, but crammed with well-worn volumes that looked actually read. Comfortable couches and armchairs were positioned around a large fireplace, with throw blankets casually draped over their arms. A chess set sat on a side table, mid-game, pieces frozen in strategic battle.

"It's not what you expected, is it?" Christopher asked, watching my face with undisguised curiosity.

"No," I admitted. "It's... warmer."

Julian smiled, his hand still resting lightly on my back. "That was Christopher's doing. He has strong opinions about creating spaces that feel like home rather than museums."

"I believe homes should invite you to live in them, not admire them from a distance," Christopher said, his gray eyes twinkling as he gestured around the room. "Feel free to touch anything, sit anywhere, make yourself comfortable. This is your space now too."

The casual permission to simply exist in the space felt revolutionary. At my parents' house, every surface was either too valuable to touch or positioned for aesthetic rather than comfort.

"Would you like to see your suite first, or would you prefer some tea and a chance to decompress?" Julian asked, his voice gentle but attentive to my needs.

I hesitated, torn between curiosity about my new accommodations and the strange exhaustion that came from a week of constant vigilance. "Actually, tea sounds wonderful," I said, then quickly added, "if it's not too much trouble.”

"No trouble at all," Christopher said immediately, already moving toward what I assumed was the kitchen. "I put a kettle on before you arrived. Earl Grey or chamomile?"

"Earl Grey, please," I replied, then caught myself. "Unless you'd prefer I have the chamomile. I don't want to be difficult—"

"Lilianna," Julian interrupted gently, his hand still warm against my back. "You're allowed to have preferences here. Actually, we encourage them."

Miles appeared in the doorway, having finished taking the luggage to, I assume, my suite.. "Christopher makes excellent tea," he said, kicking off his shoes and padding into the living room in socked feet. "Fair warning though—he'll probably try to feed you something he baked this morning. He stress-bakes when he's nervous."

"I do not stress-bake," Christopher called from the kitchen, though I could hear the smile in his voice. "I simply express my feelings through flour and sugar."

"Same thing," Miles retorted, flopping onto one of the couches with easy familiarity.

Julian guided me toward a comfortable-looking armchair positioned to catch the morning sunlight. "Please, sit wherever you like," he said, finally removing his hand from my back, though I found myself missing the warmth of his touch immediately.

I chose the armchair, settling into it with a care born from years of being told to mind my posture. The chair was deeper and softer than I expected, inviting me to relax into it rather than perch on its edge.

"You can kick off your shoes if you want," Miles suggested, noticing my discomfort. "No one stands on ceremony here."

I glanced at Julian, seeking confirmation that such informality was truly acceptable. He nodded, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Miles is right. Comfort over convention, always."

The idea was so foreign, yet so appealing. I slipped off my sensible heels, setting them neatly beside the chair, and felt the plush rug beneath my stockinged feet. Such a simple pleasure, yet it felt strangely rebellious.

---