CHAPTER 237: HIS EXCITEMENT

Leroy turned, a wide, unrestrained smile lighting his face, and broke into a run toward the marigold patch, forgetting, for just a fleeting moment, the weight of crowns, politics, and even his mother.

Aralyn’s breath caught softly.

Her son, this tall, battle-scarred man, ran like a boy, light on his feet, toward a handful of golden blossoms. The contrast between the warrior he had become and the child she had once held in her arms was almost too much to bear. Her chest tightened, a mixture of pride, relief, and the quiet ache of long years apart.

He did not pause at the flowers. He ran past them, back toward the mansion, purpose in his stride, energy that seemed inexhaustible. Aralyn followed, unsure why her legs carried her as fast as his, though she no longer had the vitality of her youth.

Inside the grand hall, Leroy’s pace slowed only slightly as he approached one of the maids. "Where is she?" His voice was calm, almost casual, but there was an unmistakable edge of longing beneath it.

Aralyn stopped mid-step, understanding immediately. She didn’t need to hear the answer. She knew what he sought, what mattered most in his mind. He wanted to know where his wife was. Not his father, not his mother, not any old memories or secrets long buried; just her. Lorraine.

Something fragile inside Aralyn broke, quietly and tenderly. It wasn’t sadness in the ordinary sense, nor was it jealousy that clawed at her. It was the weight of realization: he had grown up, fully, irrevocably, and the person he loved, the one who held his heart, was not her. And yet, he ran to her without hesitation, without doubt, without a backward glance.

He was talking to her, mid-conversation, but it was clear that his thoughts were elsewhere. His attention was entirely, unreservedly, on his wife.

Aralyn allowed herself a small, bittersweet smile. How could she begrudge him that? After all the years she had spent fearing she might have ruined his life, here he was, a man who knew what he wanted and had never wavered from it. He had grown in ways she could scarcely comprehend.

She stepped back from the hallway and let the world around her fade for a moment. Pressing a hand to her chest, she felt the rapid, steady beat of her own heart. The evening wind filtered through the open window, carrying the faint scents of the garden: the hydrangeas, the golden marigolds, the crisp scent of autumn leaves. She let it carry away the tears that had gathered unbidden in her eyes.

He was happy. He had Lorraine. That alone was enough. And in that simple truth, Aralyn found a quiet, unexpected peace.

The wind whispered through the corridors, rustling the curtains, brushing her hair across her face. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the setting sun bathe her, letting the world pause around her. She did not need to follow him any further. Her son had chosen his path, and she would let him walk it.

Yet, even as she turned to leave, she lingered on the threshold for a heartbeat longer, watching him move, watching the unmistakable joy in the way he carried himself. And in that silent observation, she felt the weight of years lift just a little. She had given him life, and in return, he had chosen to live it fully.

Aralyn exhaled softly, a breath that seemed to carry away the last of her lingering fears, and stepped back into the quiet of the evening hall, letting the promise of golden marigolds and the laughter of her grown son linger in her mind.

She would return to her life, whatever was left of it, and her place in this world, but tonight...tonight, she let herself simply watch. Watch her son run, watch him choose, watch him love.

And that was enough.

Leroy found Lorraine perched on the balcony, the fading sun painting the sky in shades of gold and amber. She sipped her tea with serene composure, completely alone, with no maids fussing over her, no ladies-in-waiting whispering plans. For once, she was simply present, watching the world dissolve into twilight.

"Come with me," he said, his voice soft but insistent, and before she could protest, he took her hand and gently pulled her to her feet.

Lorraine blinked, nearly tipping her teacup. "What? Where?" she asked, surprised by his sudden energy. She had imagined a quiet evening, finishing her tea and enjoying the last warm light of day. Yet here was her husband, dragging her into the garden with a childlike urgency she had never seen in him.

"I want you to see something," Leroy said, eyes bright, the smile on his face almost mischievous. "I could wait until morning, but you’re not a morning person, and..." He didn’t know how long those flowers would last.

He was serious, yet there was a spark of delight in him, a pure joy that made her heart stir. Leroy indeed was happy. Growing those flowers had given him more than just a patch of beauty—it had given him purpose, a connection to something simple and alive. Farming. Pulling life from the soil. He had found joy in it.

Lorraine nearly laughed seeing her husband like that when he suddenly lifted her into his arms. "Leroy! What are you—"

"Faster," he said, as if the words alone justified the action. "I can’t wait to show you."

Her arms instinctively went around his neck, gripping his collar, half in protest and half in amusement. Already, whispers of scandal were forming in her mind. A princess being carried by her husband through the garden...surely they would have something to say about that. But looking at him now, so completely unconcerned with propriety, she felt her usual caution dissolve.

He carried her through the winding paths with ease, his long legs eating up the distance, until they reached the hidden flowerbed. Lorraine hadn’t been to this part of the garden since that long-ago evening when she had glimpsed him laughing with Zara and ruining her hydrangea blooms.

The memory made her chest tighten, but the present—the sight of her husband’s eager anticipation, pushed it aside.

He gently set her down, and she blinked at the small patch of golden blooms that swayed gently in the evening breeze. "Are these... marigolds?" she asked, stepping closer, letting her fingers hover just above the petals.

"They are," he said, voice warm with pride. "I planted them myself. Every single one."

Lorraine’s eyes softened. She could see the pride in him, the small, triumphant joy of watching effort take shape. "You... you grew these?"

"Yes," he said, stepping closer so she could feel the steady heat radiating from him. "I wanted you to see them. I wanted you to see what I’ve been doing while you were—" He hesitated, as if weighing his words, then whispered, "It’s an apology for ruining your hydrangeas."