Page 19 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"As if I hadn't spent my entire life being taught not to make scenes unless they were choreographed."
She poured hot water over the tea bag, watching the water darken, and transform.
Like me.Changed irrevocably by what happened.
Cradling the warm mug between her palms, Marigold sat at the small table.
For the first time in months, the tightness in her chest began to ease.
"I did it," she said softly. "I actually left. I didn't let them break me completely."
She took a sip, feeling the warmth spread through her.
"Curtain down on that life. Curtain up on...whatever comes next."
Marigold sether empty teacup on the countertop and walked to the back door.
Something pulled her toward the garden — perhaps the shaft of sunlight streaming through the windowpane or the glimpse of greenery beyond. She turned the old brass handle, feeling a momentary resistance before the door gave way with a gentle creak.
The small garden embraced her immediately — a patchwork of wildflowers, herbs, and untamed grass bordered by a weathered stone wall. Not the meticulous perfection of the botanical gardens where Rowan had once proposed, but something authentic and unrestrained.
"No one's expectations to live up to out here," she whispered, stepping onto the flagstone path.
She closed her eyes, tilting her face toward the sun.
The warmth caressed her skin like a gentle touch, so different from the harsh studio lights she had performed under for years. A breeze carried the scent of lavender and wild roses, tangling in her hair.
"I never allowed myself moments like this," Marigold admitted to herself. "There was always another rehearsal, another performance." She spread her arms slightly, muscle memory from countless arabesques making the gesture instinctive.
When was the last time she had simply stood still and breathed?
"Inhale for four, hold for four, release for four," she murmured, falling into the breathing exercises that had once centered her before performances. But this time, there was no audience waiting, no choreography to perfect.
Just Willowbend. Just herself.
The tension in her shoulders —a permanent fixture since that night at the gala when Rowan had publicly rejected her bond— began to dissolve.
Her omega senses, always so attuned to others' expectations, now registered only the buzz of bees among flowers and distant birdsong.
She worried that it would come back to bite in her genetic makeup because an Omega without Alphas wasn’t a good thing.
When her heat comes…
She shakes the thought away, pushing it to the back of her mind.
There’s new beginnings here.
"I think I might belong here," she said, surprised by her own words.
After several minutes, Marigold reluctantly turned back toward the cottage.
There was unpacking to do, a new life to arrange.
Inside, she unzipped her suitcase deliberately. Each item represented a choice — what to bring, what to leave behind.
"No pointe shoes," she said with quiet resolve, pulling out a pair of comfortable flats instead. "No more bruised toes or bleeding feet."
She arranged her modest collection of books on a small shelf — volumes of poetry and novels she'd never had time to read during demanding performance seasons.
