Chapter - 1
CHAPTER - 1
"Some gardens wait patiently for spring. Others wait for the hearts that are brave enough to return."
The Ashford Estate had stood on the northern edge of Manhattan for more than a century, watching generations come and go while the city around it transformed into a forest of steel and glass. It had survived wars, economic recessions, and the relentless march of time, yet nothing had wounded it as deeply as silence. Once celebrated as one of New York's most breathtaking private estates, it now rested behind towering wrought-iron gates that remained closed throughout the year. The ivy that climbed its weathered stone walls had grown wild, the marble fountain at the center of the courtyard had long since fallen dry, and the gardens that had once been the pride of the Ashford family had surrendered themselves to nature.
Among the countless flowers that had disappeared over the years, one section of the estate continued to bloom with quiet determination. The old rose garden, hidden behind ancient oak trees and winding stone pathways, still carried life within it. White, crimson, and pale pink roses blossomed every spring despite years of neglect, their delicate fragrance drifting through the empty air as though they were waiting for someone who had forgotten the way home. Fallen petals rested upon cracked pathways, and thorn-covered vines embraced rusted iron arches that had once welcomed guests into a place filled with music and laughter.
The estate had not always been so lonely. There had been a time when children ran across the lawns without a care in the world, their laughter echoing through the gardens from sunrise until dusk. Elegant charity galas had filled the grand ballroom with music, while guests wandered through the rose garden beneath strings of golden lights. Every Sunday afternoon, the Ashford family gathered outside for tea, and the scent of freshly cut roses lingered in the air long after the tables had been cleared. Those days had become nothing more than memories.
For nearly ten years, Ashford Estate had remained untouched. Gardeners were paid to prevent the property from falling into complete ruin, but they were given only one instruction: maintain the land, yet change nothing. New flowers were never planted, broken statues were never repaired, and no one was allowed to redesign the gardens. It was as though time itself had been ordered to stand still. Only Few people understood why.
Even among the employees of Ashford International, the estate had become the subject of quiet speculation. Some believed the property was cursed. Others claimed the Ashford family intended to sell it but had never found the right buyer. A handful of older staff members whispered that the gardens carried memories too painful to disturb.
Only one man knew the truth. At precisely seven o'clock every Sunday morning, a black Rolls-Royce Phantom passed through the iron gates and followed the long driveway lined with towering maple trees. The routine had remained unchanged for almost a decade. The security guards greeted the vehicle with respectful nods, but no one approached it, no one offered conversation, and no one dared ask questions.
When the car came to a stop before the mansion, the driver stepped out first and quietly opened the rear door.
Damian Alexander Ashford emerged with the same composed elegance that had become synonymous with his name. His charcoal overcoat rested perfectly across his broad shoulders, and his black leather gloves concealed hands that never betrayed emotion. At thirty-two years old, he carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man accustomed to command. Every movement was deliberate, every expression carefully restrained. To the outside world, he was the brilliant Chief Executive Officer of Ashford International, the youngest businessman to transform a respected family company into a global real estate empire. Newspapers admired his intelligence, investors trusted his judgment, and competitors respected the precision with which he dismantled every obstacle placed before him. None of them knew the man who stood before the forgotten gardens every Sunday morning.
The driver retrieved a single white rose from the back seat and handed it to him without speaking. Damian accepted the flower with a slight nod before beginning the familiar walk toward the garden. His polished shoes echoed softly against the weathered stone path, disturbing nothing except the silence that had become the estate's oldest resident.
As he crossed beneath the rusted iron archway, the fragrance of roses surrounded him. The flowers had survived another winter, blooming with quiet resilience despite receiving little care from anyone. Damian paused for a brief moment and looked across the garden. Nature had reclaimed much of what human hands had once created, yet there was still beauty hidden beneath the overgrown vines.
His gaze settled upon an old wooden bench beneath a climbing rose arch. Time had faded its paint and worn smooth the edges where countless hands had once rested.
A memory stirred before he could stop it. He was eight years old again, sitting on that very bench with his legs swinging impatiently while his mother knelt beside a rose bush wearing gardening gloves far too large for her delicate hands. She had laughed as he complained about spending another Sunday in the garden instead of playing football with his friends.
"You're making flowers sound terribly boring," she had teased, brushing a loose strand of chestnut hair behind her ear.
"They don't do anything," young Damian had replied with all the certainty a child could possess.
She smiled, clipped a blooming white rose, and tucked it gently into the pocket of his tiny jacket.
"They remind us that beautiful things survive difficult seasons," she had said softly. "Never judge a garden in winter, Damian. You never know what it is preparing to become."
The memory disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. Damian closed his eyes for a brief moment before continuing toward the oldest rose bush in the garden. It stood near the marble fountain, its branches older than any living member of the Ashford family. Every Sunday, he placed a fresh white rose beneath it.
