Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
My anxiety about seeing the estate mingles with something else—awareness of Adrian beside me, the way his sweater pulls across his shoulders when he shifts gears, how he hums almost inaudibly along with songs he knows. And even those he doesn't know.
When the wrought-iron gates of Violet's estate come into view, my chest tightens. The gravel crunches under the tires as we wind up the long driveway, and I press my thumb against my palm the way I used to press Violet's brooch. Adrian parks near the front steps but doesn't immediately turn off the engine, giving me a moment.
"Ready?" and his voice has gone softer than I've ever heard it.
I nod, not trusting my voice. The mansion looms before us, Victorian Gothic in all its glory, with its steep gabled roofs and ornate trim. We walk in silence through the grand entrance hall, past the staircase with its carved oak banister. My footsteps echo on the hardwood floors, each one taking me closer to the place I've been both longing for and dreading.
At the entrance to the east wing, I pause, hand on the double doors. Taking a deep breath, I push them open.
My breath turns ragged, like it always does whenever I stand here. Three stories of books rise around us, connected by wrought-iron spiral staircases. Floor-to-ceiling windows on the east wall, their stained glass panels filter the morning light into rivers of color across the hardwood floors. Crimson, gold, emerald, sapphire—the light feels almost tangible, alive, dancing across the Persian rugs and illuminating dust motes that swirl like constellations.
I step inside, drawn by an invisible thread. Rolling ladders on brass rails wait to provide access to the highest shelves. Dark mahogany bookcases stretch upward, laden with leather-bound volumes. The room smells of old paper, with an underlying mustiness that speaks of age and history. The silence feels sacred, broken only by the grandfather clock's steady tick and our footsteps on the hardwood.
This is the exact reason I was never envious of Belle when she discovered Beast's library.
Mine is so much grander.
My fingers trail along the spines as I walk—smooth leather, worn cloth, embossed titles in gold and silver. The temperature is cool, maintained for preservation. A Chesterfield sofa sits before the fireplace, its leather worn from years of use. And there—Violet's empty Queen Anne chair by the window, where she'd sit for hours with a book and a cup of tea. Earl Grey.
This place holds so many memories. Summers spent reading in the window seat, late-night conversations with Violet about books and life and love, the day I told her I wanted to be a writer, she simply said, "Of course you do, darling. You always have been."
I blink rapidly, fighting the burning in my eyes quickly before the tears can fall, and turn to find Adrian standing near the door, watching me. His expression is softer than I've ever seen it, open in a way that makes my heart stutter.
He moves toward the shelves, his fingers hover near the spines, not quite touching. "When she invited me here, she said I needed to remember how to breathe. That the law had dried out my soul."
Despite the emotion clogging my throat, I laugh. "That sounds exactly like her."
Adrian looks up at the stained glass, the colored light playing across his features. He cuts such a sharp profile that it makes my mouth water. "Coming here felt like breathing fresh air for the first time. Like I could finally relax. So different from how I felt back in my apartment."
The weight in his voice, the vulnerability—it's so unexpected that I find myself staring at him differently. Not as the corporate robot, but as someone deeper, someone Violet saw value in.
Maybe that's why Violet did this. She saw something in both of us. Something we couldn't see ourselves. Something we're still too scared to name.
We stand in the colored light, surrounded by books that shaped us both, an understanding passing between us that neither of us speaks aloud.
We spend another hour in the library, Adrian asking practical questions about the collection while I show him Violet's organizational system. But something has shifted between us in this space. When our hands accidentally touch, reaching for the same first edition of "Wuthering Heights," we both pull back, but slower than before. The air feels different now—charged but not uncomfortable. Comfortable but charged. I don't have words for it.
Ironic, I know. I make a living with words, and I can't even describe what's happening between us.
The light through the windows sharpens and releases more amber tones.
Adrian pulls out a small leather notebook, breaking the moment. "We should discuss logistics. If we're going to convince people we're in a relationship, we need to know each other's histories, preferences, stories."
I step back, shoving both hands in my back pockets. "This feels invasive."