Chapter 182: Awkward conversation
After two long days, I finally have the chance to see my elusive son-in-law. Thorne, as expected, has been hoarding him away, as though afraid someone might steal him. And perhaps he has reason to be—after all, I’ve never seen a man so stunning in my life.
There he is, seated in the garden on a rocking chair, looking like he belongs in a portrait destined to hang in the most prestigious galleries of the Empire. His long, jet-black hair cascades over his shoulders like silk, catching the soft glow of the afternoon sun. He wears a pastel peach silk shirt that shimmers subtly, paired with simple yet elegant pants. On his chest rests Mirelle, my darling granddaughter, with her little pigtails bouncing as she giggles at something her father has done.
The sight is so perfect it nearly stops me in my tracks. If this moment were captured on canvas, it would fetch thousands of gold coins at auction. Perhaps even more. It’s not just the beauty of the figures themselves, but the tranquility of the scene—the soft laughter, the way Noelle’s delicate hands cradle Mirelle as if she’s the most precious treasure in the world. And maybe she is, at least to him.
For the first time in years, I feel nervous. This is a strange sensation for someone like me, who has commanded the attention of dukes and kings with nothing but a glance. But as I approach, I can’t ignore the murmurs I’ve heard from Thorne’s servants. If Noelle doesn’t like me—or anyone, for that matter—then neither does Thorne. My son is utterly enthralled by his husband, a truth that became abundantly clear when he threatened to behead the king. If ever there was a henpecked husband, it’s Thorne.
I was the most desired hostess of my time, a woman who snagged a duke through nothing but wit, charm, and, of course, a face that made men forget their own names. Thorne inherited his looks from me, after all, and while I say it with humility, I am not blind to the power of beauty. Noelle, though... Noelle is something else entirely. Ethereal, otherworldly even. And little Mirelle—born of two such striking parents—has inherited the best of both. She is a perfect blend, a little masterpiece of genetic artistry.
As I draw closer, Mirelle’s giggles grow louder, her sweet baby babble filling the air. It’s a sound that could melt the hardest of hearts, and I can’t help but smile as I watch her tiny hands clutch at her father’s shirt. Noelle looks down at her with such tender affection that it makes my breath catch.
Finally, I steel myself and step closer. "Hello," I say, my voice soft but confident as I address the father-daughter pair.
Noelle’s green eyes turn toward me, soft and curious, as if appraising me for the first time. His expression is serene, but there’s a flicker of something—perhaps amusement—lurking behind that gaze.
"I’m Celia," I say, offering a gentle smile. It feels strange introducing myself to someone who has, in some way, already transformed my son’s life so completely.
Noelle smiles back, and for a moment, it’s as if the garden becomes brighter. I suddenly understand why Thorne would move mountains and hand him the moon if he could. That smile could convince anyone to do the impossible.
"Yeah, I can see that," he replies, his tone light and unassuming.