Petals & You

The house is quiet this morning, the kind of quiet that always feels both comforting and suffocating.

My heels click softly against each step as I descend , the echo mixing with the faint scent of fresh lilies from the hall vase.

The house stretches around me like a silent guardian of tradition. I’ve lived here all my life, and yet, walking these halls feels… predictable.

There’s beauty, yes, but also a rigidity I’ve grown accustomed to without ever questioning it.

I tug lightly at my white blouse, paired with my black skirt, and catch a flash of my red hair in the mirror. Even my hair, a rebellious streak against the monochrome monotony, seems almost accidental in this well-ordered house.

When I reach the ground floor, I pause outside my father’s office. The door is slightly ajar, a sliver of light escaping into the hallway. I knock lightly.

“Come in,” his voice calls, calm and measured.

I step inside. The office smells faintly of polished wood and aged leather, a scent I’ve always associated with authority.

My father looks up from his papers, his dark eyes warm but piercing, scanning me as if reading the questions before I even ask them.

“Good morning, dad,” I say, smoothing my skirt as I approach his desk.

“Good morning, Evelyn,” he replies, closing the file in front of him. “How was breakfast? Did you speak to the TA about the your assignment?”

I nod. “Yes. He thinks I did a good job.”

He smiles faintly. “Good. I like hearing that you’re taking your studies seriously.”

I shrug, forcing a small smile. “You taught me well.”

We fall into a brief lull, the kind of polite, familiar silence that carries the weight of routine conversations in our household.

I glance around the office, noting the rows of books, the leather chairs, the large windows opening to the manicured garden.

I take a deep breath, steadying the flutter in my chest. “Dad, there’s something I want to discuss.”

He leans back. “Go on,” he says, voice calm but expectant.

I swallow. “I’ve been accepted to Columbia University in New York. I want to leave for the semester and complete my undergraduate degree in microbiology.”

His eyes flick up from his hands. “Have you spoken to Justin about this?”

I blink, irritation pricking under my skin. “He’s not my guardian. I don’t need Justin’s permission.”

“He’s your betrothed. Soon he will be. You know your duty, Evelyn. I promised his father a fair alliance. Your respect for this family, and your future depends on it.”

A sharp knock interrupts the room, and my pulse quickens.

“Come in,” my father says. The door opens, and Justin steps in. Older, gentle, impeccably dressed, his presence fills the office with a quiet ease.

He smiles politely, eyes warm, careful not to overstep.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he says.

I nod, forcing my own polite smile. He’s kind. Gentle. Everything my family could hope for. And yet…it doesn’t pull me in.

I glance at my father, who watches me with unwavering intensity, and I remember the promise that binds us; a marriage arranged long before my first kiss, long before I understood what I wanted.

I swallow the bitterness creeping into my throat, straighten my shoulders, and meet Justin’s gaze.

“Of course not,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.

“Justin,” my father greets warmly, standing from behind his desk. “What brings you here today?”

“I just came by to drop in,” Justin says, his voice calm and even. “I closed a deal with Harrington & Co. this morning, looks like our joint venture will expand into the Southeast faster than expected.”

My father’s eyes light up with pride, and he clasps Justin’s shoulder firmly. “That’s excellent news. I’m proud of you, Justin. You’ve done well.”

I watch them exchange smiles, the kind of measured, professional pride that fills our house. There’s admiration there, certainly, but it’s the sort of affection that feels tied to duty rather than warmth.

After a beat, my father gestures toward me. “Evelyn, we were just talking about your trip to New York.”

Justin’s brow furrows slightly. “Have you spoken to… your mother about this?”

“I have,” I say quickly, a small smile tugging at my lips. “She’s very happy for me. She says I’ll make the Richards family proud.”

He nods, hesitation still lingering in his gaze, as if weighing every possible consequence. Then, softly, “Then of course you can go.”

I feel a strange mix of relief and surprise. Justin’s tone isn’t commanding or cold, it’s reassuring, almost gentle.

I glance at my father, who waves a hand toward his papers.

“Carry on with your work. I trust both of you to handle this responsibly.”

And just like that, the weight of duty seems to lift slightly from my shoulders.

My father returns to his files, and Justin and I move to the living room. The living room is quieter than the office, a softer, more personal space. Sunlight filters through the tall windows, reflecting off the the polished wood floors.

The scent of freshly brewed tea greets us as Justin sets the kettle down and pours steaming cups into porcelain mugs.

I settle into one of the velvet chairs, smoothing my skirt, and he sits across from me. Our hands brush lightly as we reach for the cups.

“So,” Justin begins, stirring sugar into his tea, “New York… it sounds like a big change. Are you excited?”

“I am,” I admit, taking a careful sip of the fragrant tea.

“It’s… New York. Columbia. Microbiology. I’ve dreamed about this for a long time. But…” I pause, unsure how much to reveal. “It’s not just about thatl. It’s about proving I can do something for myself.”

He nods thoughtfully, eyes warm. “I understand. I know your family expects a lot from you. But if this is what you want, Evelyn… then you should have it. New York won’t change who you are, it’ll just give you room to grow.”

There’s a softness in his gaze that surprises me. Not the kind of intensity I feel with some… other people, but steady, kind, grounding.

And I realize that, despite the betrothal, Justin could be someone I respect, maybe even like, if life were different.

I set my tea cup down, absently twisting the delicate handle between my fingers.

“You know,” I say, letting the thought escape before I can filter it, “I’ve been sketching some designs lately, clothes I’d love to create someday. Maybe start with something small, like monochrome collections or minimalist pieces. Something sleek, timeless…”

Justin leans back slightly, eyes thoughtful. There’s a faint smile ,but a cautious shadow lingers there too.

“I admire that,” he says carefully. “You have an eye for style—attention to detail, elegance. But… be careful, Evelyn. Fashion can be as unforgiving as any lab experiment. One misstep, and things can go wrong fast.”

I can’t help but smile at his concern. He’s genuinely looking out for me, even if he doesn’t fully understand my fascination with colors, fabrics, and textures.

“I know,” I tease lightly. “But I think I can handle it. It’s not like I’m jumping into the industry tomorrow. Just… exploring.”

He nods, satisfied, giving me a small, approving grin.

“Good. I’d like to see where your creativity takes you. Just… don’t let it distract you from what really matters, your studies, your goals.”

We rise, and Justin extends his hand. I take it, noting the warmth and firmness of his grip.

“Thank you, Justin,” I say.

“For what?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“For understanding”

He nods once, politely, and with a final glance that carries both kindness and restraint, he turns and walks out.

The door closes softly behind him, leaving the room bathed in afternoon sunlight and silence. I stand there for a moment, letting the conversation sink in.

Then, with a flutter of excitement in my chest, I turn toward the staircase. My heels click against the polished marble as I ascend to my room, imagining the thrill of New York streets, Columbia’s towering buildings, and the life that awaits me beyond the careful confines of this mansion.

My room greets me like an old friend, familiar yet suddenly thrilling in its potential.

I pull open my wardrobe, scanning the neatly arranged clothes; white, black, the occasional silver accent and imagine how I’ll pack them for the adventure ahead.

I run my hands along the folds of fabric, brushing against the textures I’ve come to love, and for the first time in a long while, my monotony feels like a backdrop, not a cage. Each piece feels like a piece of myself, ready to step into a world where I can explore, experiment, and maybe finally choose who I want to be.

As I pack, I can’t stop smiling.

New York is calling, and I feel like I’m going to answer it on my own terms.