CHAPTER 221: THE SYMPHONY OF US

Aria’s whirlwind of energy left a vacuum in its wake. The silence in my room felt heavier now, charged with a new kind of anticipation. It was 6:25 PM. I stood before the full-length mirror, turning slightly. The soft pink chiffon of the dress flowed around me, a gentle armor. It felt right. It felt like me. Not the me who was about to defuse a bomb, as Aria had put it, but the me who was trying to build a bridge.

A soft chime from my phone announced a text. It was from a number I didn’t recognize. ’Good evening, Miss Isabella. Your car is waiting for you outside.’

My heart did a frantic little tap dance against my ribs. It was happening. There was no more pacing, no more overthinking, no more folding laundry into oblivion. My thumb hovered over the screen for a second, as if I could unsend my heartbeat.

I came out and saw two body guards waiting by the door, dad looked at me and asked if I was sure Adrien Washington isn’t some kind of mafia which I laughed off. Dad slipped me a quick, conspiratorial wink as I hugged him goodbye—his way of saying he trusted me.

The car was a sleek, black sedan, the kind that whispers of wealth rather than shouting it. The chauffeur, a man with silvering hair and impeccable posture, opened the door for me and I slid onto the cool leather seats. The drive was smooth and silent, a slow glide through the familiar city streets that now felt like a foreign country as two other black cars followed. One at the front and one behind. I clutched the small purse in my lap, my knuckles white. Over and over, the words I’d practiced with Aria—calm, honest, loving words—fled my mind, replaced by a single, stark phrase: Adrien, I’m pregnant. It sounded so clinical, so terrifyingly final.

Soon, the ornate iron gates of his estate loomed into view, swinging open without a sound. We crunched up the long, gravel driveway towards the mansion, which was lit up against the deepening twilight, looking less like a home and more like a promise.

As the car pulled to a stop, the grand front door opened. The cool evening air hit my face like a held breath finally released. Thomas stood waiting on the top step. He offered a polite, practiced smile. "Miss Isabella. A pleasure to see you this evening."

He came down the steps to greet me, and in his hand, he held a single, perfect flower: a blush-pink peony, its petals so tightly furled it looked like a silk secret. He presented it to me with a slight bow. "A gift from the master."

"Thank you, Thomas," I murmured, my fingers trembling slightly as I took it. It was beautiful, but odd.

"If you would please follow me," he said, his voice a smooth baritone. "The master is not in the dining area."

My brow furrowed, but I followed him inside. And then I stopped, my breath catching in my throat.

The grand marble foyer was gone. In its place was a river of petals—a pathway of white, red, and pink that flowed from the doorway into the heart of the house. The edges of the path were lined with clusters of white chrysanthemums and delicate baby’s breath. Nestled in the center of each cluster was a single, flickering candle, their tiny flames turning the floor into a field of earthbound stars. What in the world...

"What is going on right now?" I thought, my mind reeling. A young woman in a maid’s uniform approached me silently from the side, a shy smile on her face. She held out another single peony, which I took automatically, adding it to the first.

"Thomas... what is all this?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

He simply inclined his head, his expression unreadable, and continued walking—not on the petals, I noticed, but carefully alongside them. The path was for me. Only for me. A sudden, cold spike of panic lanced through me. Good thing I had dressed up. But...Had Adrien found out? Could he possibly know? Was this some impossibly grand gesture of acceptance? Or something else entirely?

As Thomas led me deeper into the mansion, more staff members appeared at quiet intervals. Each one stepped forward, offered me a flower—another peony, then a stem of pale blue hydrangea, then another—and melted back into the shadows. My single stem was quickly becoming a small bouquet, its weight growing in my hands, a fragrant, beautiful burden.

We bypassed the dining room, the library, and the sweeping central staircase, heading towards the rear of the mansion. Thomas finally paused at the tall glass doors leading to the gardens. He slid one open, allowing the cool evening air, sweet with the scent of night-blooming jasmine, to wash over me.

"The master is at the end of the pathway, miss," he said. A final house worker, a young man this time, stepped forward and handed me one last peony, its petals the color of a sunrise. It completed the bouquet perfectly. Thomas gave me another small bow. Then he turned and walked away, his footsteps silent on the marble, leaving me alone at the threshold.

The path of petals and candles continued outside, winding through the manicured lawns and sculpted hedges of the garden. It looked magical, ethereal, like something out of a storybook.

Why is my boyfriend putting so much into this dinner? I thought, a hysterical bubble of feeling rising in my chest. It’s just dinner. Why does it feel like... more?

But. This, this is so cute, and I want to cry, but I don’t want to ruin my makeup.

Deep breaths, Isabella. Deep breaths. I repeated the mantra, clinging to it as I continued down the candlelit path of petals and flowers in Adrien’s sprawling garden. The scent of peonies, hydrangeas, and something verdant and earthy from the hedges mixed in the cool evening air, a heady perfume that both soothed and intensified my nerves. My pink chiffon dress whispered around my ankles as I moved, each step feeling impossibly heavy, then impossibly light.

The path curved gently, leading me deeper into the meticulously kept garden, the flicker of countless small lights illuminating the way like fallen stars. The sheer scale of it all was breathtaking, almost intimidating. It felt like I was walking into a dream, or perhaps a scene from a movie... Hold on. Is he about to propose to me!?

The path meandered, a gentle, glowing river leading me past the dark, silent shapes of rose bushes and the ghostly white of gardenia trees. The air was thick with their perfume, mingling with the sweeter, cleaner scent of the peonies in my hands. With every step, the mansion receded behind me, its warm light shrinking, and the solitary glow of the candles ahead became my only guide.

Then I saw it.

At the end of the path, the candlelight opened into a clearing, and there, shimmering under the ink-black sky, was a swimming pool sculpted into a perfect heart. For a moment, I couldn’t move. The water glowed as though lit from within, its edges wrapped in flowerbeds of roses, tulips, Azalea, and lilies, tiny fairy lights woven through the leaves like stars caught in branches.

A note of music rose on the air. My gaze snapped sideways, and I realized an orchestra was waiting at the far end of the garden—five musicians, each blindfolded with silk the color of dusk. A man playing a piano, a lady playing a cello, three people with violin, and a lone flutist.

The music was a soft, swelling wave, a romantic melody that felt both intimately private and grandly public. It was a sound that bypassed the ears and went straight to the soul, tightening the knot of emotion in my throat.

My vision blurred, not from tears yet, but from the sheer, overwhelming beauty of it all. This wasn’t just dinner; this was a declaration, a symphony composed solely for me.

My breath hitched. My hands, still clutching the overflowing bouquet, trembled slightly. I felt like a character stepping onto a stage, every light, every sound, every detail meticulously placed for this moment.

Two swans sat at the tail of the pool looking all lovey dovey as they created a heart with their elegant necks.

Two flamingos stood on slender legs at the opposite end, their long necks gracefully intertwined, mirroring the swans’ affection.

Two doves were then released as they flew round the pool and then gracefully descended, landing on the ornate rim of the heart-shaped water, their pristine white feathers luminous in the soft glow. They nestled close, their cooing a gentle counterpoint to the orchestral swells.

As I stepped closer, I saw that the river of petals I’d been walking on didn’t end at the garden’s edge—it spilled into the pool itself. Red, pink, and white blossoms floated together, shaping words across the glowing water. In white: ’Will you make me your forever?’ In pink: ’My sweet bunny.’ Each phrase was haloed by water lilies, their candles flickering like tiny stars.