Chapter 22 #2
Fleur beams. Her dress is a pale yellow, scattered with a soft, floral print.
Her boots, however, are solid black and unlaced, as if they ground her whimsical presence in something sharper.
She has always reminded me of a gothic wallflower—the contradiction of her dark aesthetic and dreamy silence, a sweet persona with dark secrets kept in a house of glass…
When I first met her, her name was Fyodor. He/him only, as birth dictated. It was during a political summit between Bratva rivals. I was undercover, waiting for a signal to eliminate one of the lesser lords—Pavel Mirov, a pompous swine with a taste for humiliation.
Fyodor was there, tending to the potted arrangements placed around the meeting room. Mirov noticed him. Decided he didn’t like the way Fyodor moved. Too graceful. Too gentle. Too…“off”.
He stuck out his cane and tripped him. Fyodor fell face-first into the soil he had so carefully planted. The room roared with laughter. Then Mirov stomped his neck into the dirt, muttering, “Fucking sissy boy. Can’t even stand like a man.”
That was all the signal I needed.
I drew my gun and put a bullet through Mirov’s temple.
Panic. Blood. Screams. The entire room erupted into a hurricane of death. I lost three men covering my escape and nearly got cornered in one of the old servant corridors.
But Fyodor found me again. Still covered in dirt, lips trembling, but eyes alight. He tugged my arm and pulled a hidden wall panel open, helping me escape. I could have left him.
But once we were in my car and I gunned it down the mountain road, I looked at him—mud streaked down his cheek, his hands shaking but eyes steady—and I asked, “You’re good with flowers and plants?”
He nodded.
I stroked my jaw. “You want a job? You’d have your own greenhouse.”
Another nod. Hesitant. But certain.
He tapped his lips, then shook his head to indicate his silence. Mute. Not by birth, but by trauma—I would learn later.
Didn’t matter.
I reached into my coat and handed him a small notepad and pen I kept near my holster. “Your full name?”
He wrote slowly, deliberately.
Fleur. He / She / They.
I shrugged. “Works for me.”
Back in the present, I watch as Valentina approaches Fleur and Levka with a shy, sweet curiosity I haven’t seen in her. Levka throws a hand dramatically toward her.
“May I present our Lady of the Manor, my beloved soulmate’s dark mirror,” he says. “Beauty. Rebuilder of chaos.”
Valentina giggles as she takes Fleur’s hand. Fleur studies her face as if reading a poem written on her cheekbones. Then she gestures for Valentina to follow her. My Valya does without hesitation.
Fleur lifts a bloom from the chilled display with delicate precision. Even before I see it, I know which one she’s chosen—Middlemist Red. It’s bold, almost scandalous. The pink color makes everything else around it look pale and insipid.
Valentina stares, lips parting as Fleur offers it to her with ceremonial grace.
“One of the rarest flowers in the world,” I murmur, stepping closer, letting my breath cast along the side of her neck. “Only two are known to exist. Fleur had this one grown in our private garden. This is her love language. She picked it for you.”
Valentina glances at me, searching. “Why me?” she asks softly.
I swallow. “Because the Middlemist is beauty buried in mystery. Lost to time…until it bloomed again. It symbolizes resilience, luxury, and elegance. It reminds Fleur of you. Of the you we lost and found again.”
She reaches for it, hesitant fingers hovering just over the petal, but Fleur lifts a single finger.
A pause. Intentional.
Then, in one fluid motion, Fleur turns and unclasps a velvet-lined case I didn’t even notice her preparing. Nestled inside, like something stolen from another world, lies a single Ghost Orchid—nearly translucent, as if caught between this life and the next.
Valentina gasps. Just a hitch of breath, but I catch it.
“Fleur doesn’t often give two flowers. But this is a special occasion. The Ghost Orchid… it’s rare, too. Almost impossible to cultivate. Some believe it only blooms where death and life press against each other.”
Valentina’s lashes lower as she accepts the orchid. Her fingers tremble slightly.
“It means spiritual beauty,” I say softly and brush my knuckles down her cheek. “And survival. Fleur is honoring who you are now. The woman who doesn’t remember…but is still undeniably you.”
Eyes shimmering, Valentina lifts the orchid to her chest, close to her heart, cherishing it.
Then Levka interrupts, as usual, spinning to Fleur. “Are the newest mushrooms ready, my petal princess?”
Fleur pokes his stomach with a lavender sprig. He bows in gratitude. “I am unworthy of your shrooms, but I thank you nonetheless.”
Valentina tilts her head, eyes narrowing as she watches the way he leans into Fleur, the way she loops her pinky around his as if to ground him.
She notices. Of course she does.
Just then, a soft knock on the glass signals Zina’s entrance. Two luxurious fur coats hang over her arm—one black, one white.
“Pleasure to see you today, Fleur,” Zina says with a respectful incline of her head. “Emilian is still raving about your truffles. Says he might abandon butter entirely.”
Fleur smiles and rustles to the side to pluck another flower—a warm orange marigold with a golden center, the universal symbol of gratitude. She hands it to Zina, who tucks it into the pocket of her coat with a rare smile.
“I’ll see to it he gets it,” Zina promises, then hands me the coats.
I motion to Valentina. “Come. There’s something I want to show you.”
I guide her to the greenhouse’s far corner, where a door leads to a tiled patio.
After placing the white coat over her shoulders, I open the door, and we step out, the cool air immediately brushing our cheeks.
It’s mid-fall, but the weather is warmer.
A crisp 50 degrees. But it often feels cooler due to the oceanic wind. Frost and salt lace the air.
She hugs the white coat closer as I lead her onto the balcony. Below us, the grounds sculptures lie in silent vigil across the frost-coated lawns.
I glance down at her. She’s not smiling.
“What is it?”
A pause. My spine tightens with concern. Then, quietly: “Nothing. It’s just…I don’t remember them. Any of them. How can I not remember such incredible people in your life, Roman? In our life?”
I tuck her into my side and comb my fingers through her golden waves. “Because your mind is a labyrinth, Valentina. With locked doors, twisted halls. And sometimes, pieces get lost in the dark. But your heart…your heart’s always leading you. Every step. Every beat.”
She looks up at me, eyes moist and searching.
“And that’s what I love most about you. Your passion. Your fire.” I smirk and cup her chin. “That sharp little tongue I enjoy sparring with. Your kindness. Your fury. Your strength.”
I brush my lips against hers.
“Don’t worry about remembering them,” I whisper. “Just keep being you. They’ll love you as much as I. They already do.”
“Really?”
“Well, not like that, Moya Samotsvet,” I chuff a laugh.
Next, I lead her down the stone stairway leading to the sculpture garden, contained in an elongated conservatory, too intrigued for her response. We enter the narrow threshold, enclosed by native Alaskan trees, which serve as a border.
No gust of air escapes. It’s dead silent. Pressure-sealed for its primary purpose.
I murmur a sweet but filthy implication in her ear. My plans for later.
Then, she turns, her lips parting, and my wife’s eyes go wide at the sight. And she…clenches my hand tighter.