Lucien wandered through the garden, where every bloom was painted in shades of violet.
Lilacs swayed gently in the breeze, irises stood proud among their leaves, and clematis vines climbed the archways like ribbons of silk, their petals glowing faintly under the sun.
He reached out to touch one, tracing the soft texture of the flower as a faint smile crossed his lips.
He never cared much for plucking flowers to place them in vases. To him, they were most beautiful when left to live and die on their own. Alive in rain-soaked petals, bending under the wind, fading only when nature willed it.
But not everyone saw it that way.
Across the path, Randolph appeared, seated in a wheelchair pushed by his right-hand man. A basket of fresh purple hyacinths rested on his lap, their scent carried by the wind.
"Uncle… ah, I mean, Mr. Randolph." Lucien caught himself, trying to strike a balance between respect and professionalism now that they stood as equals.
