She just looked at me with those steady brown eyes, and I saw something there that looked like pity.
We cleaned up in silence.
The greenhouse had a small sink in the corner, and I found a towel that wasn't too dirty, and I wiped her thighs and then mine and then the bench where we'd left marks that would probably never come out. She watched me the whole time, her arms wrapped around herself, my sweater falling off one shoulder.
"You should go," she said.
"Monika—"
"You should go, Gabriel. Before someone finds us. Before your father—"
"My father doesn't own you."
"Maybe not. But he owns this house. And he owns the air we breathe in it." She walked toward the door. Paused with her hand on the handle. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being kind to me. When you didn't have to be."
She left. The door closed behind her with a soft click, and I stood in the greenhouse alone, surrounded by orchids and the smell of earth and the ghost of her skin on mine.
I loved her.
I loved her and she didn't love me back, and I didn't know what to do with that.
I sank onto the potting bench and put my head in my hands.
The orchids watched me in silence.
I stayed in the greenhouse until the sun went down.
I thought about my mother. About the way she used to sing in this room, her voice soft and low, her hands gentle on the leaves. I thought about the way she'd looked at my father—with love, yes, but also with fear. The same fear I saw in Monika's eyes sometimes, when she thought no one was watching.
I thought about the future. About medical school, about the person I was trying to become, about the person I was afraid I already was.
I thought about Monika's face when I'd saidI love you. The way she'd looked at me. The way she hadn't said it back.
I thought about my father's hand on her lower back.
I thought about Nathan's eyes, watching us all.
And I thought about the greenhouse—about the way it had felt to be inside her, to be wanted by her, to be the person she chose in this moment even if she wouldn't choose me in the end.
I loved her.
I loved her, and it was going to destroy me.
And I didn't care.
When I finally walked back to the house, the lights were on.
The windows glowed gold against the dark, and I could see figures moving inside—servants, guards, the machinery of the Mire household grinding on despite everything. I stood in the garden for a moment, looking up at the second floor, at the window of Monika's room.
The light was on.
I could see her silhouette against the curtain—small, still, her head bowed like she was praying.
I wondered what she was praying for.
