A waiter appeared beside them, holding a tray of champagne flutes. Isla reached for one but "accidentally" knocked another, spilling it directly down Amelia's gown.
"Oh my God," Isla gasped dramatically. "I'm so clumsy!"
The liquid was cold and sticky, soaking the silk fabric instantly.
A few gasps rippled nearby. Laughter, barely masked, flared across the room.
Amelia stood frozen.
"Oh, Amelia, I'm so sorry," Isla continued, grabbing a cloth napkin she had no intention of actually using. "This is silk, right? That's just awful. These designer dresses can be so fragile. Like..." she giggled, "they fall apart under the tiniest pressure."
Amelia looked to Richard.
He was already reaching for another drink, unmoved. "You should go clean up," he said flatly, as if she were an employee dismissed from duty.
No concern. No defense. No embarrassment. Just dismissal.
And just like that, Amelia knew: Isla hadn't spilled the drink. She had claimed the territory. Marked it. And Richard had let her.
The walls blurred slightly around the edges as Amelia turned and walked out of the ballroom for the second time that night, but this time, she didn't stop at the terrace.
She walked straight to the valet.
The silence in the car was thicker than the noise she had left behind.
Every breath felt like glass in her throat.
The driver offered her a sympathetic glance in the mirror, but said nothing, professional discretion at its best.
Back at the mansion, she entered quietly. No one greeted her. No lights were left on for her return. The house didn't feel like a home, hadn't in years. Just a museum of her sacrifices, a mausoleum of forgotten dreams.
She walked past the grand piano she once played, now covered in dust.
Past the painting Richard had once commissioned of her, regal, cold, lifeless.
Up the staircase she had floated down on their wedding day, believing she was walking into forever.
And finally, into her bedroom. Not theirs. Hers. They hadn't shared one in months.
She peeled off the ruined dress, letting it fall to the floor with a wet slap. Her skin was sticky. Her eyes burned. But she didn't cry.
She stepped into the shower, turned the water scalding hot, and stood there, unmoving.
Letting it burn. Letting it cleanse. Letting it hurt.
Because pain was the only thing that reminded her she was still alive.
Sometime later, wrapped in a robe, she sat at the edge of her bed, staring at nothing.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Richard:"Stay out of the spotlight for a while. Tonight wasn't your best moment."
That was it.
Not are you okay, not I'll talk to Isla, not I'm sorry.
Just an instruction. A PR directive.
Her fingers trembled, but she didn't respond. What was left to say?
Downstairs, she heard the soft knock of staff retrieving her gown for cleaning. The house moved around her like a machine she no longer understood.
Her eyes drifted to the window. The garden was dark, peaceful, a different world.
And she remembered the man with quiet eyes and calloused hands.
"You looked like someone trying to remember how to breathe."
God, she had wanted to cry when he said that. Because it was true. She didn't know when she had stopped breathing. Only that tonight, Isla had poured more than champagne on her, she had doused the last spark of Amelia's silence.
.....................
Morning sunlight filtered softly through the sheer curtains, casting golden ribbons across Amelia's pale skin. She hadn't slept much. After the gala, after Isla, after the champagne, she had stared at the ceiling for hours, the silence pressing in around her like a second skin.
Richard hadn't returned.
She wasn't surprised. He had done it before. Nights spent in hotels "for business," lies wrapped in silk sheets and cologne. But this time felt different.
Colder.
Like the final act of a man who had already left in every way but legally.
Amelia stood barefoot by the window, her coffee untouched on the dresser.
Her eyes drifted to the garden.
And then her heart stopped.
There, standing by the rose archway with a small shovel in hand, was him.
Ethan.
The same Ethan from the gala terrace. The man who had spoken like he could see her soul in the dark.
And now, he was standing in her garden.
She didn't even realize she had moved until she was halfway down the stairs, slippers silent against the marble floor.
She opened the back door slowly, stepping into the sunlight like it might shatter her.
He looked up.
And for a split second, just a flicker, there was recognition in his eyes.
But he masked it quickly.
"Oh," he said, blinking. "It's… you."
Amelia folded her arms instinctively. "You're the new gardener?"
Ethan scratched the back of his neck, feigning awkwardness. "Yeah. Hired through a private firm. Just started this morning. Didn't realize this was your house."
She stared at him, expression unreadable.
"You didn't?" she asked softly.
Ethan gave her a crooked smile. "No. Guess fate has a sense of humor."
She let out a breathless laugh, not quite trusting herself to smile. "Apparently so."
There was a pause, not uncomfortable, just full. The kind of silence that hummed with everything unsaid.
"I hope I'm not intruding," Ethan said, lowering his gaze. "I can speak to the contractor if you'd prefer someone else."
Amelia shook her head quickly. "No. No, it's… fine. You're just doing your job."
He nodded. "That's all I'm here for."
But the way he said it, calm, gentle, careful, made her believe he was here for something more. And yet, she didn't press. Couldn't. The night before was still too raw, her pride still too bruised.
She glanced around the garden.
"It looks different," she said quietly. "Overgrown."
"I noticed." Ethan knelt, brushing soil from the base of a dying rosebush. "But I think it just needs someone to see it properly."
Amelia looked at him.
Their eyes met.
And suddenly, it wasn't about the flowers anymore.