Page 102 of Wisteria and Cloves

I glanced around the room, my eyes landing on the stack of books beside me—the novels and poetry collection from yesterday's shopping trip, along with the leather journal Nicolaus had chosen for me. I reached for the journal, tracing my fingers over its soft leather cover.

"This," I said, holding it up. "My first post should be this. It represents new beginnings, new thoughts."

Julian nodded approvingly. "Perfect. We could arrange it with one of the books open beside it, perhaps with a cup of tea?"

"And maybe one of Miles's flowers," I added, warming to the idea. "Something small and delicate."

Nicolaus stood without a word, disappearing from the room only to return minutes later with a small crystal vase containing a single perfect bloom—a pale blue forget-me-not nestled among sprigs of greenery.

"Miles wouldn't mind," he said simply, placing it on the table beside my journal.

My heart swelled at the thoughtful gesture. "It's perfect."

Julian helped me arrange everything—the journal slightly open to reveal blank pages waiting to be filled, the forget-me-not positioned just so, and a delicate teacup with steam still rising from its surface. He took several photos from different angles, then showed me the results.

"What do you think?" he asked, scrolling through the options.

I studied each image carefully, finally selecting one where the sunlight caught the edge of the journal, illuminating its pages with a soft golden glow. The forget-me-not was perfectly positioned, its tiny blue petals vibrant against the cream-colored pages.

"This one," I said decisively. "It feels... hopeful."

Julian nodded, his expression warm as he helped me upload the image. "What caption would you like to add?"

I thought for a moment, then typed: "First pages of a new chapter. It fits where I am in my life now.” I gave the two men a smile. They were a part of what changed my life and am forever grateful.

"Simple. Honest. I like it," Nicolaus nodded approvingly, a rare smile softening his usually serious expression. "It's perfect."

With a deep breath, I hit "share," sending my first social media post ever into the world. A small thrill ran through me as theupload completed—something that was uniquely mine, created and shared by my choice alone.

"And now we wait," Julian said, his hand coming to rest lightly on my shoulder. "Though with Mara promoting it through our official channels, I suspect you'll have followers rather quickly."

"Is that... good?" I asked, uncertain how to feel about strangers looking at glimpses of my life, even carefully curated ones.

"It's natural," Nicolaus replied, his analytical mind always cutting straight to the heart of things. "The public is curious about who we're courting. This gives them something genuine to connect with, without exposing you to scrutiny.”

I watched the post settle onto the screen, crisp and glowing beneath the soft light of the room. My photo. My words. My choice. A strange mix of pride and vulnerability bloomed in my chest.

Julian’s hand was still on my shoulder, his thumb drawing slow, grounding circles through the fabric of my cardigan. Nicolaus had returned to the armchair across from us, fingers steepled under his chin as he watched the screen update in real-time.

“You already have one hundred followers,” he said, tone unreadable but eyes sharp. “Two hundred.”

I blinked. “Already?”

Julian gave a small laugh under his breath. “Mara’s very good at what she does.”

It was surreal watching the numbers climb, little hearts and usernames fluttering into view with every refresh. I hadn’t expected this level of visibility so fast.

As if sensing the shift in my posture, Julian leaned down, speaking softly beside my ear. “Hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to do anything more tonight. One post is enough.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to share,” I admitted, my voice quiet. “It’s just… all of this is so new. People seeing me. Having opinions.”

Nicolaus’s voice cut in gently. “You don’t owe anyone more than what you choose to give. That’s the whole point of this—choice.Not obligation.” I met his gaze, and something in it calmed the rising flutter in my chest. He always spoke with clarity, even if his tone could be a little cool. But tonight, his words carried an extra softness. Understanding.

“I think that’s what scares me,” I murmured, tucking my knees beneath me on the couch. “I’ve never really had the freedom to decide what parts of myself I wanted to share. My parents always had a script. What to say. What to wear. How to act.”

Julian’s hand tightened slightly on my shoulder. “You’re not in their script anymore, Lilianna.”

“No,” I said quietly. “I’m writing my own.” For a while, we sat there in companionable silence, the hum of the house gentle around us—the ticking clock on the mantel, the faint sound of wind stirring outside, the subtle clink of a teacup being set down. Julian had poured a fresh cup for me without asking, the aroma of chamomile and honey filling the air.

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