Chapter 1169
Morning sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the Tudor estate, painting the room in warm hues of gold. For the first time in what felt like forever, the house was quiet—not with the silence of tension, but with the serenity of peace.
Elizabeth stirred awake slowly, the faint rustle of sheets pulling her from sleep. She blinked against the light, realizing she wasn’t alone.
Alexander stood at the edge of the bed, already dressed in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, collar undone. He was holding a tray—coffee, toast, and a small vase with a single white rose.
Her brows arched. “Breakfast in bed? I thought Alexander Tudor didn’t believe in such… ordinary gestures.”
His lips curved faintly, self-mocking. “Alexander Tudor didn’t. But the man standing here now would do anything to remind you he’s trying.”
Elizabeth sat up, accepting the tray with cautious grace. The aroma of fresh coffee filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of rain lingering outside. She took a sip, savoring the warmth. “It’s not terrible,” she said softly, her eyes flicking up to meet his.
“Not terrible?” He chuckled, feigning offense. “I’ll take that as progress.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t heavy. It was gentle, filled with something almost fragile—comfort.
After breakfast, Elizabeth followed him downstairs. Papers were spread across the dining table—documents from Hidden Camp, reports from the Tudor Group. For years, these stacks of responsibility had driven a wedge between them, symbols of duty that came before love.
But today, Alexander pulled out a chair for her. “We sort through them together,” he said simply.
Elizabeth hesitated, then sat. Hours passed with the two of them reading, discussing, even disagreeing—but without venom, without pride. Where once arguments had flared into wounds, now they softened into compromise. She realized, with a pang of surprise, that she didn’t mind the weight when it was shared.
Later that afternoon, they walked through the gardens. The roses were in bloom, their scent sweet in the breeze. Elizabeth stopped before a patch of pale pink blossoms, her fingers brushing a delicate petal.
“I used to dream of moments like this,” she murmured. “A simple morning, a walk in the garden, someone beside me who actually stayed.”
Alexander’s chest tightened. He reached out, gently tilting her chin until her eyes met his. “Then let me give you that dream, every day, until it’s no longer just a dream.”
Her breath caught. For a heartbeat, the walls around her heart faltered again. She didn’t reply with words. Instead, she let her hand slip into his, her grip light but certain.
They stood among the roses, the world around them quiet, as though holding its breath. For the first time in years, Elizabeth allowed herself to believe that peace was possible—that after storms and scars, love could still bloom.