Page 89 of Reign

It smells like cedar and citrus and something faintly floral I can’t place.

For one humiliating second, I nearly smile.

I catch myself just in time. Luciano notices anyway.

“This way,” he says.

I turn slowly, taking in the high ceilings, the art, the way every line in this place seems intentional without being stiff. “How long have you had this place?”

He pauses, and I’m immediately annoyed that I sound curious instead of outraged.

“I bought it recently,” he says. “It was remodeled.”

Of course it was. Of course he didn’t just own a perfect house. He had to buy one and improve it.

My gaze drifts past him through the wall of glass toward the back. “It’s beautiful.”

His attention stays on me for a beat too long. “The garden isn’t done yet.”

I look out again.

There are already terraces and low hedges and a long stretch of green that curves toward the back of the property, but I can see where it’s still being shaped. Empty beds waiting for planting. Stone paths not fully softened yet by anything living. A space with bones but not its final skin.

“My mother loved a good garden,” I say before I can stop myself.

The words land quietly between us. The unfinished beds make me think of her hands in soil, clipped stems in glass vases, the way she stopped in front of beautiful things as though she had all the time in the world to admire them.

I move closer to the glass before I realize I’m doing it.

The garden isn’t bad. It’s beautiful already, which annoys me because everything on this property has been designed specifically to humble me. But it’s too severe in places. Too controlled.

“The bones are good,” I say, mostly to myself. “The paths. The fountain. The hedges framing the view. But it needs softness.”

Luciano is watching me.

“What?” I ask.

“Keep going.”

I look back outside, pretending his attention doesn’t crawl over my skin like a hand. “Hydrangeas near the terrace. White or pale blue, unless you’re afraid of looking too romantic. Lavender along the path, but not too much or it starts feeling like someone tried too hard.”

His lips quirk.

I point toward the fountain before he can say whatever annoying thing he’s thinking. “And something climbing there. Not roses. Everyone does roses because they’re obvious.”

“You don’t like roses?”

“I like roses,” I say, slightly offended on behalf of roses everywhere. “I just don’t think they need to be the answer to every romantic landscaping crisis.”

He hums low.

I hate that it makes my skin react.

“Jasmine would be better near the terrace,” I say quickly. “In planters, obviously, unless you want winter to murder it. But they’re perfect for the night.”

“The night,” he says.

“Yes, Luciano. Night. The thing that happens after sunset.”