A Reign of Roses

Windswept Moments

The days melted into weeks, each one blurring into the next as Anastasia and Lukas sought solace in each other's company. What had begun as stolen glances and hesitant words had blossomed into something neither could name but both refused to abandon. Their moments together, though fleeting, felt like rare treasures amidst the gilded cage of her life.

It was during one such meeting, under the shade of a sprawling oak at the edge of the estate, that Lukas began to open up.

"I used to come to places like this when I was a boy," Lukas said, leaning back against the tree's rough bark. His voice was quiet, thoughtful. "Anywhere I could escape the noise."

"What kind of noise?" Anastasia asked, settling onto the soft grass beside him.

Lukas's lips curved into a small, bitter smile. "The kind that reminds you how little you have. My father was a blacksmith, my mother a seamstress. Honest work, but not enough to keep the wolves from the door. When the revolution came..." He paused, his jaw tightening. "It tore through everything we'd built. We lost our home, our sense of safety. My father fought in the uprisings, but he never came back. My mother... well, she was strong. She had to be."

Anastasia listened intently, her gaze fixed on him. "You've carried so much," she said softly. "More than anyone should."

Lukas shook his head. "It made me who I am. But it also taught me not to trust too easily."

Anastasia tilted her head, a teasing smile forming. "And yet, here you are, trusting me."

"Maybe you're the exception," Lukas murmured, his eyes locking with hers.

The conversation shifted as Anastasia, in turn, shared pieces of her own childhood.

"I used to think my life was perfect," she began, her voice carrying a note of nostalgia. "I had everything—comfort, security, a family who expected me to fit neatly into their world." She traced a pattern in the grass with her finger, her expression thoughtful. "But it wasn't always so simple. My mother died when I was young. She was... she was everything to me. Gentle but strong, kind but firm. When she was gone, it felt like the air had been stolen from the house."

Lukas remained silent, his gaze steady, allowing her words to unfold.

"My father tried to fill the void, but it wasn't the same. He threw himself into maintaining the family's status, ensuring that Isabelle and I were raised to be 'proper ladies.'" She laughed softly, the sound tinged with sadness. "Isabelle took to it like she was born for it. But me? I hated the endless lessons in etiquette, the rules, the expectations. I wanted to climb trees, to run barefoot in the gardens, to paint until my hands were stained with color."

"You wanted freedom," Lukas said, his voice warm with understanding.

Anastasia nodded. "But freedom isn't something my world allows easily."

One evening, in the golden light of the setting sun, they sat by the fountain in the garden. The air was cool, carrying the scent of roses and damp earth. Lukas had brought her a small book, its leather cover worn but elegant.

"A gift?" Anastasia asked, her brow arching in surprise.

Lukas shrugged, a faint smile playing on his lips. "A loan. It's a collection of poetry. I thought you might like it."

As she thumbed through the pages, her fingers lingering on the delicate script, Lukas watched her with a quiet intensity.

"I didn't take you for a romantic," she teased, glancing up at him.

"Don't let it go to your head," he replied, smirking. "I have layers, just like anyone."

They spent the next hour reading passages aloud, their laughter and murmured voices weaving a tapestry of shared understanding. For the first time in years, Anastasia felt seen—not as Lady Anastasia de Lemoine, the daughter of a powerful family, but simply as herself.