Page 18 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across her new floor, and though uncertainty still coiled in her stomach, for the first time since Rowan's public rejection, since Magnolia's betrayal, Marigold felt something unfamiliar blooming in her chest.
Hope.
Small and fragile, but undeniably there.
3
LEAVING IT ALL BEHIND
~MARIGOLD~
"Hello?"she called instinctively, then laughed at herself—a brittle sound that seemed to bounce off the whitewashed walls. "It's just you now, Mari. Just you."
Sunlight streamed through mullioned windows, catching dust motes that danced in the air like the snowflake scene fromThe Nutcracker.
The light cast a honeyed glow across the space — a small sitting area with a faded floral sofa, a stone fireplace with a rough-hewn mantel, and shelves built into the walls, empty and waiting.
Marigold ran her hand along the back of the sofa, feeling the soft, worn fabric beneath her fingertips.
"Different from the designer furniture Rowan insisted upon," she murmured. "No one will be photographing this for Architectural Digest."
The thought brought unexpected relief rather than regret.
She moved to the window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass, watching as a chickadee landed on a branch justoutside. The bird cocked its head as if curious about the new arrival.
"What do you think?" she asked it. "Can an Omega ballet dancer whose career and heart were shattered find peace here?"
The bird chirped once before flying away.
At least here no one will look at me with pity,she thought.No whispers about the prima ballerina rejected by her Alpha at the company gala. No gossip about how my own twin orchestrated my humiliation.
A shaft of sunlight caught her left hand, highlighting the pale band of skin where her engagement ring had once rested. Marigold closed her fingers into a tight fist, as if she could crush the memory.
"This is day one," she declared to the empty cottage, her voice gaining strength with each word. "This is where Marigold Everhart begins again."
Moving with the deliberate grace that years of ballet had ingrained in her, Marigold continued her exploration. A narrow hallway led to a small bedroom with a wooden bed frame and a simple white quilt.
She paused at the threshold, her dancer's eye already measuring the space.
"I could put my reading chair there," she said, pointing to the corner by the window. "And perhaps some wildflowers on the nightstand." She stepped lightly into the room, her movements an unconscious arabesque as she tested the floorboards.
No sprung floors here, she thought.No more sixteen-hour rehearsals or bleeding toes.
A small bathroom adjoined the bedroom—nothing like the marble palace in Rowan's penthouse, but clean, with a claw-foot tub that made her smile despite herself.
"When was the last time I took a bath just for pleasure, not to soak away muscle pain before the next performance?" she whispered to her reflection in the small mirror.
The woman who stared back looked tired but somehow lighter as if shedding the weight of expectations.
Marigold returned to the main living area, drawn to the kitchen tucked into the far corner. Sunlight spilled across a worn wooden table, highlighting a small vase of freshly cut daisies — a welcoming gift from the property manager, perhaps.
"Tea," she decided, opening cabinets until she found a kettle. "Everything feels more manageable after tea."
Her hands moved with practiced precision, filling the kettle and searching for cups. The familiar ritual steadied her when she found a blue ceramic mug and a tin of Earl Grey.
"Do you think I did the right thing, coming here?" she asked aloud as the kettle began to whistle. "Magnolia said I was being dramatic. That I should just accept that Rowan..." Her voice caught. "That I should just accept it and move on without making a scene."
The bitter laugh that escaped her echoed in the quiet kitchen.
