CHAPTER 147: THE WINTER FLOWER

It was afternoon now. The sun was bright, and the world looked like it had forgotten the rain. The wet scent in the air had faded, and the palace grounds were clean and still. The gardens outside glowed in soft light, and inside, the halls were quiet except for the distant shuffle of servants.

In her chambers, Tatiana stood before her mirror. She was alone. The sunlight from the tall window touched her face, but her attention was on her reflection. Beneath her silk dress, she had tucked soft clothes around her stomach. The shape made her look as if she were already months into her pregnancy. She turned sideways and placed her hands on the false swell, studying herself. Her eyes softened. Her lips curved into a faint smile. She rubbed the shape gently, imagining the life that would soon be real.

The door opened without a knock. Yelena stepped in, carrying a small tray with tea. She stopped when she saw Tatiana. A little smile touched Yelena’s lips as she walked closer.

"What are you doing?" Yelena asked, her tone warm, almost playful.

Tatiana quickly removed her hands from her stomach, though the clothes were still there under her gown. "Nothing," she replied, her voice light. "I was just curious how I would look in a few months."

Yelena placed the tray on a table and came to her side. "Do not be scared, my lady," she said softly. "Everything will be fine."

Tatiana’s smile grew stronger. "I am not scared. Not at all." Her tone carried a quiet certainty. "I know for sure everything will work out. His Highness is only... distracted for now. He will realise soon enough." She looked at herself once more in the mirror, her hands moving back to her stomach. "Once I give him a son, everything will be fine."

Yelena nodded, though she said nothing more. Her eyes followed Tatiana’s reflection for a moment before she excused herself.

Far away from that quiet chamber, in the lounge, Ivan sat on a dark green settee. A low light fell over the room from the tall windows, and his hands rested on a folded music sheet. Slowly, he opened it and placed it on the stand before the grand piano. The title was written in his careful hand: The Winter Flower.

He stared at those words for a long time before pressing the first keys.

The melody filled the room, slow and gentle at first, like a soft breath on a cold day. The notes carried a sadness that seemed to wrap around the air, but there was beauty in it too — a quiet, fragile beauty, like something precious that should never be touched too roughly. The song rose and fell, tender and aching, each note seeming to carry a memory he wished he could hold again.

Halfway through, his hands stopped. His head bowed forward, and his shoulders shook. Tears slid down his face, falling onto the keys. His fingers curled into fists. The song was his. Every note, every pause, was his. And it was hers too. Lydia.

The winter flower. The only warmth he had ever known in the coldest parts of his life. The only light that had ever reached the shadows inside him. Beautiful, kind, fragile. She had been all of those things. And instead of protecting her, he had destroyed her. He had taken something rare, something so delicate, and burned it to ashes with his own hands.

The thought pressed against his chest like a heavy stone. He had turned the most precious thing he ever had into pain. Now, all that remained was the ache of loss. He wiped his eyes roughly and closed the piano.

The hours passed. The sun began to sink, and the palace was bathed in the gold and red of sunset. Ivan rose from the lounge, his steps slow as he made his way back to his chambers. He opened the door and began unbuttoning his shirt, ready to strip away the heaviness of the day with the quiet of his room.

Then he froze.

From behind the door to his bath chamber, a sound reached him. A faint splash of water. A soft movement. His hand instinctively reached for the sword hanging on the wall. Gripping it tightly, he stepped quietly toward the sound.

He pushed the door open, ready to face an intruder.

The sword slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.

Lydia was there. In his bath. The steam rose around her, carrying the faint scent of rose petals and warm water. She was sitting in the deep tub, her wet hair clinging to her shoulders, droplets running down her bare skin. She looked completely at ease, as though this were the most natural thing in the world.

Ivan froze. His body went rigid. His mind tried to understand what he was seeing.

Lydia looked at him with a small, calm smile. "I got bored of my room," she said, her tone light, almost playful. "So I decided I wanted a balcony I could sit on and enjoy the view. I’m having it renovated." She let her fingers trail lazily through the water. "It will take a week or more. So I will be staying here in the meantime."

Then she stood. The steam curled around her, the light of the sunset spilling across her damp skin. Water slid down her hair, over her shoulders, tracing every curve. She looked at him with wide, almost innocent eyes. "I can stay here, right?" she asked softly, her voice holding no edge, as if she truly meant no harm.

Ivan could not move. His breath caught in his throat. His heart pounded so loud it filled his ears. He didn’t know if she had come here to torment him or if this was simply Lydia being Lydia — unshaken, untouchable. All he knew was that the sight of her there, in his space, in his world, left him unable to speak.