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A knock on the door brings me to reality.
“Come in.”
“Honey.” Mum walks inside, a tray of chocolate cake in hand.
I smile, swallowing the memories of Aaron and his chocolate cakes. “Thanks, Mum.”
She sits beside me as I nibble at a piece. “Are you going to accept the exhibition’s request? They were fascinated with your work.”
I stop chewing then resume. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’m ready to reveal this collection.”
Mum’s eyes glint. “I’m sure you will do well no matter what you choose.” She smiles, seeming drowned in another world. “You’re like your father that way. He always worked hard to get what he wants.”
I put the half-eaten piece of chocolate cake back on to the plate. “Mum, how did you know Dad was the one? You’re dissimilar. You’re an artist, he’s analytical. There are hardly any hobbies you share.”
She releases a small breath, her gaze reminiscent. “I looked into his eyes and decided I wanted to wake up to them for the rest of my life. It’s our differences that taught us how to sacrifice.” She pauses, expression morphing to suspicion. “Why are you asking? Did you meet someone?”
“Maybe.” I chew on my bottom lip. “Actually, I know he’s the one, but I don’t know if we will ever work.” I sniff back tears. “It’s another case of loving someone enough to let them go.”
Mum’s hands wrap around my shoulders. “Oh, honey.” She rubs my skin, her voice soft. “Don’t force it. Everything is better in its own time.”
Wiping my eyes, I nod and offer her a reassuring smile.
When Mum leaves, I open my laptop. Google stares at me and I stare back. I always wanted to do this and never had the courage.
Ugh. Okay here we go.
Since I don’t know his last name, I first search Aaron. There are many Aarons. When I add Tristan and aristocracy, articles flow. Aaron Rhodes. He’s a Rhodes? I know that name. They’re one of the biggest business companies in the country. I learnt that from attending Dad’s conferences.
Aaron holds the title of an earl. Tristan is a duke.
Their long-term partner is Dylan Hart who holds the title of a Marquis.
They really are part of the British aristocracy.
There aren’t many pictures of Aaron, though. The ones that exist are a documentation of aristocratic families. Others are professional takes of him in dashing suits. I linger on one of them, my pulse thumping loud.
Ever since I left the estate, my heart was dormant, this the first time it leaps back to life. As if looking at Aaron through a motionless photo will make him real.
Although with effort, I stop reminiscing about Aaron and dig out information about Arthur and Eva’s death and the massacre Tristan talked about.
An article states that Arthur and Eva Rhodes died in a car accident. They even mention that their son will be adopted by his uncle Alexander.
The family’s massacre isn’t mentioned in any paper. Instead, there’s an article about a fire that killed most of The Rhodes’ estate nobles as well as their attendants. The Harts were there too. Only Tristan, Aaron, and Dylan survived. They were sent to a boarding school financed by the noble community their families belong to.
I huff. Boarding school for killing.
I read all information available on Aaron, which isn’t much. He and Tristan don’t seem to like the media. The journalists keep harassing them nonetheless. It must be tiring to live such a life.
The available images about the Rhodes’ estate are impressive, but not as beautiful as in real life. And I’ve only lived in one wing out of four.
With a heartfelt sigh, I close the laptop. There’s no information about how Aaron is doing these days. Only stupid speculations by gossipping reporters who didn’t get an interview with him.
What am I doing? It’s like the constant ache in my heart is spreading and infecting my brain. I can’t function straight anymore. Pretending to be all right is only delaying my imminent breakdown.
I need to do something about this.
. . . . .
