Chapter 15

Chapter 15:

Eliza explored the house slowly. It was filled with art — not generic prints, but pieces she recognized. A Monet she had always loved. A sculpture that looked remarkably like one her father had once owned.

“He has good taste,” she murmured, her fingers grazing a frame.

She drifted out to the back patio. The lake stretched before her, calm and mirror-still, the tree line reflected perfectly in its surface.

Then the roar of an engine shattered the quiet. A red convertible tore up the driveway.

Azalea.

She hopped out wearing oversized sunglasses and brandishing a bottle of wine.

“Party time!” she announced.

𝖣𝘰𝗇’𝘵 𝘮іs𝘀 ո𝗲w 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝖾𝖺𝘀𝖾ѕ 𝗼n ѕ.с𝘰𝗺

Eliza smiled. Dallas had invited Azalea. He had known she would feel awkward alone with him, and so he had thought of everything — as he always seemed to.

“Come on,” Azalea said, grabbing Eliza’s hand. “You haven’t seen the best part p>

It was an hour later. Dallas was inside, ostensibly on a conference call. Azalea dragged Eliza toward the far end of the property, past the infinity pool, to where a walled garden stood built of old stone that looked as though it had been there for a century.

“Dad is weirdly obsessed with this part,” Azalea said, pushing the wooden gate open.

Eliza stepped inside.

The breath left her body.

It was a rose garden — but not just any roses.

They were white roses. Hundreds of them. The bushes were mature and lush, heavy with blooms, and the scent was overwhelming — sweet, heady, and achingly nostalgic.

“Winchester Cathedrals,” Eliza whispered.

Her mother’s favorite flower. The same roses that had filled the Solomon garden before the bank took the house. They were notoriously difficult to grow in this climate.

“How —” She touched one of the velvet petals.

Azalea leaned against the stone wall. “Dad has been obsessed with this garden ever since he bought the place. Hired some specialist from England just to keep these specific roses alive. Says they’re for the ‘future lady of the house,’ or some other corny line like that p>

Eliza went still.

“Ever since he bought the place?” she asked. “We weren’t — I didn’t know him then. Not really p>

“He knew you,” Azalea said softly, watching her with a quiet smile. “He knew you loved them p>

Eliza’s heart hammered against her ribs. The timeline didn’t fit a sudden business arrangement. It didn’t fit a marriage of convenience.

He had been cultivating this garden for someone. For her.

Dallas appeared at the gate. He was still in his casual clothes, hands in his pockets, and he wore an expression she had never seen on him before — something uncertain, almost tentative. Like a boy who had just handed over a valentine and was bracing to be turned away.

Azalea caught Eliza’s eye and winked. “I’m going to go find snacks. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do p>

She slipped past Dallas and disappeared, leaving them alone in the sea of white petals.

Eliza turned to face him. Her eyes were wet.

“Why?” she asked. “Why these flowers p>

Dallas walked in. The gate clicked shut behind him.

“Because they are resilient,” he said, his voice low. “They survive the frost. Like you p>