Chapter 7 - THE DAWN OF WHITE ROSES
The first pale rays of Sunday morning sunlight broke over the crest of the rolling hills surrounding the Romano estate, washing the manicured lawns in a warm, golden glow. The smell of damp earth, fresh dew, and woodsmoke from the previous night’s minor blaze still lingered faintly in the air, but the heavy, oppressive tension that had choked the manor for years was entirely gone.
Down in the memorial garden beside the family chapel, the heavy iron gates stood wide open.
Sophie Bennett walked slowly along the flagstone path, carrying a wooden crate filled with freshly cut white rose saplings and a pair of sturdy gardening shears. Her cotton apron was tied securely around her waist, and her hair was pulled back in a neat braid. For the first time in six years, the air in the garden felt light, peaceful, and entirely unburdened.
Behind her came the rhythmic scuff of leather boots on stone.
“Need a hand with that crate, Sophie?” a deep, familiar voice asked gently.
Sophie turned around to see Dominic Romano walking down the path. He had discarded his formal suit jacket and tie; he was wearing a simple dark chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing strong, corded muscles, and his dark hair was slightly tousled by the morning breeze.
Sophie smiled, a genuine, radiant smile that reached her eyes. “I think I can handle a few rosebushes, Mr. Romano, though I certainly wouldn't say no to someone who knows how to dig a proper trench.”
Dominic chuckled, stepping closer and taking the heavy wooden crate right out of her hands with effortless ease. He set it down gently beside William Price’s brass grave marker, which had already been polished until it gleamed like gold in the morning light.
“It’s just Dominic today, Sophie,” he said softly, leaning against the stone bench nearby. “At least when we’re out here away from the boardrooms and the lawyers.”
Sophie felt a warm flush rise to her cheeks, but she held his gaze. “All right... Dominic. How are things holding up at the main house this morning?”
“Quiet,” Dominic replied, his expression turning thoughtful. “Arthur and Cassandra were picked up by the state police at first light. Hawthorne Properties is already facing emergency receivership by the state banking commission, and Julian Vance is cooperating with the prosecutor’s office in exchange for witness protection. The corrupt title deeds are being voided one by one.”
He paused, looking down at the polished brass marker bearing William’s name: William Price — Beloved Husband, Faithful Friend.
“And Eleanor?” Dominic asked.
“She’s already sitting on the terrace with little Leo and his father,” Sophie said, her voice softening with deep affection. “Leo’s dad is back on permanent contract as head groundskeeper, with a full pension guarantee written directly into the estate’s revised charter. Eleanor told me this morning that for the first time in eleven years, she feels like her husband can finally rest in peace.”
Dominic reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small, leather-bound object—his mother’s diary, opened to a specific page marked with a dried flower petal.
“My mother wrote something else in here,” Dominic said, looking up at Sophie. “On the very last page, right before she passed. She didn't trust easily, but she knew character when she saw it.”
Sophie stepped closer, her curiosity piqued. “What did she write?”
Dominic turned the diary so she could read the neat, elegant lines written in black ink:
“The true wealth of the Romano estate has never been the gold in the vault or the concrete on the drive. It is the loyalty of those who care for the soul of this place when everyone else is distracted by power. If my son ever finds a partner worthy of this house, look for the hands that are willing to tend the soil.”
Sophie looked up from the page, her breath catching in her throat as she met Dominic’s intense, unwavering gaze.
May you like
Before either of them could speak, the chapel doors creaked open behind them, and eighty-two-year-old Eleanor Price stepped out into the sunlight, leaning on little Leo’s small, steady shoulder, carrying a porcelain teapot and two cups.
“Well, are you two going to stand there talking about soil all morning,” Eleanor called out with a warm, knowing twinkle in her eye, “or are we going to plant these roses before the sun gets too high?”
