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Chapter Nine

Lilianna

The door closed behind us with a gentle thud, sealing off the outside world.

I stood in the entryway, absorbing my surroundings with wonder.

The foyer opened into a spacious living area where sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating built-in bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling—not arranged for show like in my parents' home, but crammed with well-worn volumes that looked actually read.

Comfortable couches and armchairs were positioned around a large fireplace, with throw blankets casually draped over their arms. A chess set sat on a side table, mid-game, pieces frozen in strategic battle.

"It's not what you expected, is it?" Christopher asked, watching my face with undisguised curiosity.

"No," I admitted. "It's... warmer."

Julian smiled, his hand still resting lightly on my back. "That was Christopher's doing. He has strong opinions about creating spaces that feel like home rather than museums."

"I believe homes should invite you to live in them, not admire them from a distance," Christopher said, his gray eyes twinkling as he gestured around the room. "Feel free to touch anything, sit anywhere, make yourself comfortable. This is your space now too."

The casual permission to simply exist in the space felt revolutionary. At my parents' house, every surface was either too valuable to touch or positioned for aesthetic rather than comfort.

"Would you like to see your suite first, or would you prefer some tea and a chance to decompress?" Julian asked, his voice gentle but attentive to my needs.

I hesitated, torn between curiosity about my new accommodations and the strange exhaustion that came from a week of constant vigilance. "Actually, tea sounds wonderful," I said, then quickly added, "if it's not too much trouble.”

"No trouble at all," Christopher said immediately, already moving toward what I assumed was the kitchen. "I put a kettle on before you arrived. Earl Grey or chamomile?"

"Earl Grey, please," I replied, then caught myself. "Unless you'd prefer I have the chamomile. I don't want to be difficult—"

"Lilianna," Julian interrupted gently, his hand still warm against my back. "You're allowed to have preferences here. Actually, we encourage them."

Miles appeared in the doorway, having finished taking the luggage to, I assume, my suite.

. "Christopher makes excellent tea," he said, kicking off his shoes and padding into the living room in socked feet.

"Fair warning though—he'll probably try to feed you something he baked this morning. He stress-bakes when he's nervous."

"I do not stress-bake," Christopher called from the kitchen, though I could hear the smile in his voice. "I simply express my feelings through flour and sugar."

"Same thing," Miles retorted, flopping onto one of the couches with easy familiarity.

Julian guided me toward a comfortable-looking armchair positioned to catch the morning sunlight. "Please, sit wherever you like," he said, finally removing his hand from my back, though I found myself missing the warmth of his touch immediately.

I chose the armchair, settling into it with a care born from years of being told to mind my posture. The chair was deeper and softer than I expected, inviting me to relax into it rather than perch on its edge.

"You can kick off your shoes if you want," Miles suggested, noticing my discomfort. "No one stands on ceremony here."

I glanced at Julian, seeking confirmation that such informality was truly acceptable. He nodded, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Miles is right. Comfort over convention, always."

The idea was so foreign, yet so appealing. I slipped off my sensible heels, setting them neatly beside the chair, and felt the plush rug beneath my stockinged feet. Such a simple pleasure, yet it felt strangely rebellious.

Julian took the seat across from me, his movements fluid and controlled. "How are you feeling? Truly?"

The directness of the question caught me off guard. My instinct was to offer the polite answer, the expected one—I'm fine, thank you for asking—but something in Julian's steady gaze made me want to be honest.

"Overwhelmed," I admitted. "But... hopeful? It's strange being in a place where I don't know the rules yet."

"That's understandable," Julian said, his voice warm with understanding. "And as for rules—there aren't many, at least not the kind you're used to."

Christopher returned, balancing a tray with a teapot, cups, and a plate of what looked like freshly baked scones. The rich aroma of butter and vanilla filled the air as he set the tray on the coffee table.

"The only real rule is communication," Christopher said, pouring tea into delicate blue cups. "We talk to each other. We ask questions. We listen to the answers."

Miles sat up to make room for Christopher on the couch. "And we respect each other's boundaries," he added, reaching for a scone. "Which means if you need space, you say so. If something makes you uncomfortable, you tell us."

"What if I don't know how to articulate what I need?" I asked, accepting the cup Christopher offered me. The warm porcelain against my fingers grounded me as I inhaled the fragrant steam. "I'm not used to... asking for things."

Julian leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. "Then we'll help you learn. No one expects you to transform overnight, Lilianna. This is a process."

"A journey," Christopher added, settling beside Miles with his own cup of tea. "With plenty of room for mistakes and discoveries."

I took a careful sip of tea, the rich bergamot flavor washing over my tongue. It was perfectly brewed—strong but not bitter, with just the right amount of brightness.

"This is wonderful," I murmured, surprised by how much I meant it.

Christopher beamed. "Secret family recipe. Well, not really secret—I just add a touch of vanilla to the leaves before brewing."

"Try a scone," Miles urged, his expression unexpectedly earnest. "Christopher's been up since dawn making them."

I reached for one, noticing they were still warm to the touch. Taking a small bite, I found myself closing my eyes involuntarily as butter and vanilla melted on my tongue.

"These are incredible," I said, forgetting propriety as I took another, larger bite. My mother would have been horrified at such enthusiasm over food, but the smile that lit Christopher's face was worth the momentary lapse.

"I'm glad you like them," he said, looking genuinely pleased. "I wasn't sure if you'd prefer sweet or savory, so I made both. There are cheese ones in the kitchen if you'd rather—"

"These are perfect," I assured him, surprising myself with my decisiveness.

Julian watched me with quiet attention, something like satisfaction in his expression. “Thanks to Miles your things are in your suite.” he smiled."Would you like to see your rooms? Take some time to settle in before lunch?"

I nodded, setting down my teacup with reluctance. The warmth of the moment—the casual conversation, the genuine smiles, the simple pleasure of good tea and better company—felt precious and fragile. I didn't want to break the spell by moving too quickly.

"Your suite is on the third floor," Julian explained as we stood. "Complete privacy, but close enough that you can find us if you need anything."

Christopher bounced to his feet. "I'll show you the way. Fair warning—I may have gotten a bit carried away with the decorating."

Miles grinned from his position on the couch. "He bought out half of the store and then rearranged everything three times."

"It needed to be perfect," Christopher protested, leading us toward a graceful staircase that curved up from the foyer. "First impressions matter."

I followed Christopher up the stairs, Julian a reassuring presence behind me. The staircase was beautiful—dark wood with an ornate banister that felt solid beneath my hand. So different from the cold marble of my parents' house.

The second floor held what appeared to be the main bedrooms, doors spaced evenly along a wide hallway with more bookshelves built into the walls between them.

Christopher pointed as we passed. "Julian's suite is there on the left, mine's across from his, Miles is at the end, and Nicolaus is on the right. "

We continued up to the third floor, where the staircase opened onto a small sitting area with a comfortable window seat overlooking the street. Christopher gestured to a set of double doors. "And this," he said with barely contained excitement, "is your space."

He pushed open the doors with a flourish, stepping back to let me enter first. I hesitated at the threshold, my heart beating so fast I could feel it in my throat. This moment felt significant—stepping into a space that was mine in a way nothing had ever been before.

Taking a deep breath, I walked through the doorway and stopped, stunned into silence.

Sunlight poured through tall windows draped with gauzy curtains that diffused the light into a soft glow.

The room before me was spacious and airy, painted in the palest shade of lavender that seemed to change with the light—sometimes silver, sometimes the barest hint of purple.

Unlike the cream and gold prison of my bedroom at home, this space felt alive with subtle color and texture.

"We weren't sure of your preferences," Christopher said, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant as he watched my reaction. "So we kept things fairly neutral. But if you want to change anything—paint colors, furniture, anything at all—just say the word."