Chapter Fourteen
THE GRAVEL PATH crunched beneath her sandals as Aliyah walked toward the greenhouse, the mid-afternoon sun hanging low but bright in a pale blue sky. The air was warm and still, the kind of quiet that made everything feel suspended—like the moment before something shifts.
Constantine’s text this morning had been brief.
Meet me at the greenhouse.
She didn’t know what to make of it still.
The last few days were a blur. A whirlwind that had left her emotionally raw, exhausted and thoroughly wrung out after confronting her father. She had no idea how much Constantine had heard and was unsure if she even wanted to rake it up again.
But when he’d taken her from her father’s arms, sobbing, and lifted her into his arms as if she were precious, she’d completely crumbled, mumbling about not losing him. Again.
And like an idiot, she’d fallen asleep in his arms, too drained to even wonder what he was going through.
Not that it was a surprise that her mind had simply given out. She’d spent the past two weeks processing the news of the pregnancy, the fear about Constantine possibly being brought to harm by her mother and the ache of being in love with him again.
When she’d woken up the next morning, he’d been calm. Almost gentle. He told her that the boy who’d stabbed him in London had been caught. A hungry teenager looking for a wallet, nothing more. No connection to her mother. No ongoing threat to him.
Then he’d looked at her as if she were an unknown puzzle and asked softly, “Are you okay?” His gaze had dipped briefly to her stomach.
She’d nodded. Flushed. Braced herself for his anger. For his recriminations. She deserved them this time.
But they hadn’t come.
“I’m glad,” he’d said. “I’ve had my secretary set up a few appointments with renowned ob-gyns. I’ll be there with you, and you can choose one you like.”
She’d simply nodded.
He’d turned and walked away. She’d been desperate to stop him, to ask him to stay with her, to hold her again. To show her his real emotions. Instead, some strange intuition pushing her, she’d asked, “The boy from London, what will happen to him?”
He had turned and smiled, though the warmth didn’t quite reach his eyes. “He has a job at one of the London offices. He’s a hungry orphan. That would have been my fate if Julian hadn’t befriended me.”
With that, he left, while her heart expanded to thrice its size at the generosity of the man she’d married.
She hadn’t seen him for two nights after that.
He claimed work, and maybe it was true, but each hour of his absence had scratched at her nerves.
She couldn’t help wondering if it had all finally caught up to him—her tears, her secrets, her touchy desperation.
Her mother’s poisonous resentment of him.
Her father’s pathetic attempts to fix the past.
Maybe she’d pushed too hard, clung too tightly. Maybe she’d reminded him too much of the scared girl she used to be, of the cowardly betrayal she had dealt him.
And now, this. The greenhouse. Of all places.
Her stomach twisted as she reached the door, her hand hovering over the rust-free brass handle.
She pushed the door open.
The scent hit her first—clean earth, crushed herbs, sweet citrus blossoms and something floral she couldn’t place. Light poured in from the slanted glass panels above, warm and dappled, catching on dew-tipped leaves and terra-cotta pots brimming with rosemary, basil, lavender.
Everything was in bloom. Everything was alive. So different from the last time she had hidden here and Constantine had found her.
She stepped inside, breath catching. The old greenhouse had been restored.
Every broken tile replaced, every panel cleaned, every shelf organized.
It looked almost exactly as it had back then—when she’d sneak away from piano lessons and he’d slip out from under her father’s thumb and they’d meet here.
Just a neglected girl and a hardworking boy reaching out to each other.
Her eyes stung and she nearly ran out of there.
Why was he restoring this, now of all times? What did it mean?
Why couldn’t the blasted man tell her what was in his heart?
Because, for all that she had yelled at her father that they had stolen his goodness, it was still there beneath cold arrogance and dripping cynicism—the very heart she had loved so much once.
And standing in this place that had brought them together, that had given them a new beginning that night, Aliyah straightened her shoulders. This time, whatever happened, whatever he threw at her, she would not run. She would not hide herself away. She would stand and fight.
She rubbed her damp palms on the sides of her sundress, suddenly aware of her heartbeat thudding in her ears. Then she spotted him.
Constantine stood near the far corner, next to a blooming vine she couldn’t name.
He wore black trousers and a white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the buttons open enough to reveal the dark scatter of hair on his chest. The sunlight poured through the high panes and gilded the edges of his jet-black hair, kissed the harsh lines of his face with soft gold.
He looked up.
Their eyes met.
And for a moment—just one aching, breathless moment—he wasn’t the man who had built an empire or ruthlessly trapped her into a marriage.
He was the boy she had once loved more than life. The boy who had kissed her under this very roof and whispered that she was the only thing that ever felt like home.
“Hey, you’re here,” Constantine said, his voice a low, almost awkward rasp that seemed to cut through the heavy, humid air.
Before she could respond, he turned, moving with a fluid grace that belied his powerful build, and walked toward a small, gleaming porcelain sink nestled against the far wall.
As he moved, Aliyah thought she saw a fleeting flash of fear in his deep-set eyes, a flicker quickly masked, but why would he be scared? She was the one who’d been left in radio silence after she’d made a fool of herself.
It must have been a trick of the dappled light filtering through the restored glass panels.
Her gaze, against her will, clung to his broad back, the taut line of his shoulders and the undeniably firm curve of his butt in those impeccably tailored black trousers.
A familiar warmth spread low in her belly, a stark contrast to the knot of anxiety in her chest. She forced herself to sound casual, her voice a little breathy. “You had this restored fully. Can I ask why now? When you hate this villa, this place so much?”
He shrugged, a subtle shift of those powerful shoulders, as he ran water over his hands, scrubbing at the dark earth clinging to his fingers.
The soft gurgle of the water was the only sound in the quiet space.
He reached for a clean white rag hanging beside the sink, wiping his hands slowly, deliberately, before finally turning to face her.
“I would like an answer, Constantine,” she persisted, her tone firmer now, pushing past the sudden clench of her stomach. What was he thinking?
His gaze, when it met hers, was guarded, yet held a flicker of something she couldn’t quite decipher.
“I used to love gardening, remember?” he said, his voice almost wistful.
“It was the one time my grandfather had time for me. I loved puttering in here, coaxing stubborn plants to take root.” He gestured vaguely around the vibrant, thriving space.
“I thought I should go back to it. As for why here, at the villa,” he said, “I lost sight of a great many things here. If I wanted to fix them, I thought it should be here. Theo, stubborn as usual, has deeded the place to the both of us.”
“Oh. That’s a great idea, that you want to change what this place means to you,” she said, the words feeling genuinely warm as she pushed off the doorframe and came to stand opposite him, leaning against the cool, smooth surface of the newly installed counter.
The scent of clean earth, crushed rosemary and the sweet, almost cloying perfume of unseen citrus blossoms filled her senses, a stark contrast to the chaotic storm of her emotions.
His eyes, dark as midnight, searched hers, and this time, she wasn’t confused or projecting. This time, the concern, the raw, almost painful tenderness, was unmistakable. It was there, clear as day, his heart in his eyes.
“You are okay?” he asked, his gaze dipping briefly, almost imperceptibly, to her stomach.
She nodded, a flush creeping up her neck. She reached up, wiping a damp bead of sweat from her forehead, her skin feeling clammy despite the warm, still air. “Of course. Mornings aren’t the greatest yet.”
Just as she was about to ask why he had summoned her here, what this meticulously restored sanctuary meant for them, he reached down. From somewhere beneath the counter, he produced a sleek black portfolio.
He held it out to her, and Aliyah froze. Her breath hitched, the scent of the greenhouse suddenly too heavy, too sweet. She knew, with a chilling certainty that settled deep in her bones, that whatever was in that portfolio, she would not like it.
“What is it?” she demanded, her tone hard, brittle. She refused to reach for it.
He looked away, his gaze avoiding hers, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
“Some stuff that I’ve been organizing the last few days.
” He finally met her eyes again, though his own were still shadowed.
“It’s mostly good news, poulaki mou. For you, I mean,” he added, his voice gruff, as if the endearment had slipped out by accident.
“The last thing I have energy for right now, Constantine, is to parse through another of your damned contracts,” she said stiffly, her voice thin and sharp, cutting through the sweet, cloying air of the greenhouse.
The words tasted like ash on her tongue.
“Just imagine you’re dealing with an idiot and spell it out for me, won’t you? ”