Page 7 of Meadowsweet and Marigold (EverAfter CozyXverse #1)

LEAVING IT ALL BEHIND

~ M ARIGOLD~

"Hello?" she called instinctively, then laughed at herself—a brittle sound that seemed to bounce off the whitewashed walls. "It's just you now, Mari. Just you."

Sunlight streamed through mullioned windows, catching dust motes that danced in the air like the snowflake scene from The Nutcracker .

The light cast a honeyed glow across the space — a small sitting area with a faded floral sofa, a stone fireplace with a rough-hewn mantel, and shelves built into the walls, empty and waiting.

Marigold ran her hand along the back of the sofa, feeling the soft, worn fabric beneath her fingertips.

"Different from the designer furniture Rowan insisted upon," she murmured. "No one will be photographing this for Architectural Digest."

The thought brought unexpected relief rather than regret.

She moved to the window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass, watching as a chickadee landed on a branch just outside. The bird cocked its head as if curious about the new arrival.

"What do you think?" she asked it. "Can an Omega ballet dancer whose career and heart were shattered find peace here?"

The bird chirped once before flying away.

At least here no one will look at me with pity, she thought. No whispers about the prima ballerina rejected by her Alpha at the company gala. No gossip about how my own twin orchestrated my humiliation.

A shaft of sunlight caught her left hand, highlighting the pale band of skin where her engagement ring had once rested. Marigold closed her fingers into a tight fist, as if she could crush the memory.

"This is day one," she declared to the empty cottage, her voice gaining strength with each word. "This is where Marigold Everhart begins again."

Moving with the deliberate grace that years of ballet had ingrained in her, Marigold continued her exploration. A narrow hallway led to a small bedroom with a wooden bed frame and a simple white quilt.

She paused at the threshold, her dancer's eye already measuring the space.

"I could put my reading chair there," she said, pointing to the corner by the window. "And perhaps some wildflowers on the nightstand." She stepped lightly into the room, her movements an unconscious arabesque as she tested the floorboards.

No sprung floors here , she thought. No more sixteen-hour rehearsals or bleeding toes.

A small bathroom adjoined the bedroom—nothing like the marble palace in Rowan's penthouse, but clean, with a claw-foot tub that made her smile despite herself.

"When was the last time I took a bath just for pleasure, not to soak away muscle pain before the next performance?" she whispered to her reflection in the small mirror.

The woman who stared back looked tired but somehow lighter as if shedding the weight of expectations.

Marigold returned to the main living area, drawn to the kitchen tucked into the far corner. Sunlight spilled across a worn wooden table, highlighting a small vase of freshly cut daisies — a welcoming gift from the property manager, perhaps.

"Tea," she decided, opening cabinets until she found a kettle. "Everything feels more manageable after tea."

Her hands moved with practiced precision, filling the kettle and searching for cups. The familiar ritual steadied her when she found a blue ceramic mug and a tin of Earl Grey.

"Do you think I did the right thing, coming here?" she asked aloud as the kettle began to whistle. "Magnolia said I was being dramatic. That I should just accept that Rowan..." Her voice caught. "That I should just accept it and move on without making a scene."

The bitter laugh that escaped her echoed in the quiet kitchen.

"As if I hadn't spent my entire life being taught not to make scenes unless they were choreographed."

She poured hot water over the tea bag, watching the water darken, and transform.

Like me . Changed irrevocably by what happened.

Cradling the warm mug between her palms, Marigold sat at the small table.

For the first time in months, the tightness in her chest began to ease.

"I did it," she said softly. "I actually left. I didn't let them break me completely."

She took a sip, feeling the warmth spread through her.

"Curtain down on that life. Curtain up on...whatever comes next."

Marigold set her empty teacup on the countertop and walked to the back door.

Something pulled her toward the garden — perhaps the shaft of sunlight streaming through the windowpane or the glimpse of greenery beyond. She turned the old brass handle, feeling a momentary resistance before the door gave way with a gentle creak.

The small garden embraced her immediately — a patchwork of wildflowers, herbs, and untamed grass bordered by a weathered stone wall. Not the meticulous perfection of the botanical gardens where Rowan had once proposed, but something authentic and unrestrained.

"No one's expectations to live up to out here," she whispered, stepping onto the flagstone path.

She closed her eyes, tilting her face toward the sun.

The warmth caressed her skin like a gentle touch, so different from the harsh studio lights she had performed under for years. A breeze carried the scent of lavender and wild roses, tangling in her hair.

"I never allowed myself moments like this," Marigold admitted to herself. "There was always another rehearsal, another performance." She spread her arms slightly, muscle memory from countless arabesques making the gesture instinctive.

When was the last time she had simply stood still and breathed?

"Inhale for four, hold for four, release for four," she murmured, falling into the breathing exercises that had once centered her before performances. But this time, there was no audience waiting, no choreography to perfect.

Just Willowbend. Just herself.

The tension in her shoulders — a permanent fixture since that night at the gala when Rowan had publicly rejected her bond — began to dissolve.

Her omega senses, always so attuned to others' expectations, now registered only the buzz of bees among flowers and distant birdsong.

She worried that it would come back to bite in her genetic makeup because an Omega without Alphas wasn’t a good thing.

When her heat comes…

She shakes the thought away, pushing it to the back of her mind.

There’s new beginnings here.

"I think I might belong here," she said, surprised by her own words.

After several minutes, Marigold reluctantly turned back toward the cottage.

There was unpacking to do, a new life to arrange.

Inside, she unzipped her suitcase deliberately. Each item represented a choice — what to bring, what to leave behind.

"No pointe shoes," she said with quiet resolve, pulling out a pair of comfortable flats instead. "No more bruised toes or bleeding feet."

She arranged her modest collection of books on a small shelf — volumes of poetry and novels she'd never had time to read during demanding performance seasons.

"Did you know," she said to the empty room, as if practicing casual conversation, "that I used to hide these from Magnolia? She'd tell Rowan I wasn't focused enough if she caught me reading anything but dance biographies."

Her fingers lingered on a photo frame, still face-down in her luggage.

With hesitation, she lifted it — a picture of her parents, taken years before they passed.

"I think you would understand why I had to leave," she whispered, placing the frame on the bedside table. "You always said happiness shouldn't hurt."

From her toiletry bag emerged a small bottle of perfume — the one possession Rowan had never chosen for her.

"My scent, not his," she declared, setting it on the dresser.

Each item found its place — clothes in drawers, a hand-knit blanket across the foot of the bed, a sketchbook, and pencils on the small desk by the window. No luxury items, nothing from her former Alpha, nothing that reminded her of the stage.

Marigold paused, suddenly aware that she was humming — a simple, unfamiliar melody.

When had she last made music purely for herself?

"New space, new rhythms," she said softly, smoothing her hand over the bedspread. "New Marigold."

The empty suitcase she slid under the bed—not discarded, but no longer needed for immediate escape. This cottage, with its crooked doorframes and worn floorboards, wasn't just shelter.

It was becoming home.

As twilight descended, Marigold pulled a wooden chair to the west-facing window.

The fading light cast long shadows across the garden she'd explored earlier. She sat with her knees drawn to her chest, watching as the sky transformed from blue to a canvas of amber and rose.

"I used to miss sunsets," she murmured, tracing a finger along the windowpane. "Always in rehearsal when the day ended."

The cottage grew quiet as the light shifted, painting the walls in warm hues that reminded her of the theater — but without the suffocating pressure that had become her constant companion.

"Is this what normal people do?" she asked the empty room, a small smile playing on her lips. "Just...watch the day end without counting how many fouettés they managed beforehand?"

Her ballet instructor's voice echoed in her memory:

Time spent idle is potential wasted, Marigold.

"No," she countered aloud. "This isn't idle. This is... living."

The colors deepened overhead — fiery orange melting into dusty pink, with strokes of purple emerging at the edges. So different from the artificial lighting of the stage, yet no less magnificent in its composition.

Marigold leaned forward, resting her forehead against the cool glass.

"I chose this," she whispered, her breath forming a small cloud on the window. "Not Rowan. Not Magnolia. Me."

A familiar tightness squeezed her chest as her twin's name crossed her lips. They had once been inseparable — before ballet, before Rowan, before ambition had corroded what should have been unbreakable.

"Why wasn't I enough for either of you?" The question hung in the air, unanswered.

As darkness settled, Marigold finally pulled herself away from the window.

She moved through the cottage with the practiced grace that years of dance had etched into her muscles, turning on a small lamp that cast a gentle glow across the room.

Later, she lay in bed, listening to the symphony of night sounds filtering through the partially open window — crickets chirping, leaves rustling, an occasional hoot of an owl.

So different from the city's constant noise, from Rowan's controlled breathing beside her, from the emptiness that had pervaded their shared apartment.

"I don't know who I am without ballet," she admitted to the darkness, her voice barely above a whisper. "Or without being someone's Omega."

She rolled onto her side, pulling the quilt tighter around her shoulders. The bed felt too big for just her — yet wonderfully, entirely hers.

"But I'm going to find out," she promised herself, feeling the tender bruises of rejection and betrayal still aching within her.

Yet beneath that pain, like a seedling pushing through soil, there was something new taking root — determination, possibility, the first fragile tendrils of self-discovery.

Marigold closed her eyes, feeling the quiet of Willowbend envelop her like a protective embrace.

Tomorrow would bring its own challenges, its own decisions.

But for now, in this moment, she allowed herself to simply be.

Broken but not shattered, wounded but healing, alone but increasingly whole.