The gardens of Cavendish Manor stretched out before me, bathed in the soft glow of the late afternoon sun. The neatly trimmed hedges and blooming roses stood in stark contrast to the storm that raged within me.
I had come here for solitude. To think. To escape the weight pressing against my chest.
It was Eleanor.
I exhaled, running a hand through my hair as I paced the stone pathway. I had told myself—over and over—that my feelings for her were nothing more than admiration. A deep respect for her resilience, her intelligence. But the truth was far less simple. I wanted her.
And that was precisely the problem.
I had spent my life bound by duty. By rules. By expectations that had been set long before I could even understand them. Love—true love—had never been something I allowed myself to consider.
But Eleanor made me question everything.