Some secrets are best left just that—a secret.

Your fingers brushed over the petals of the white rose, silken and cool beneath your touch. Its sweet, delicate scent wrapped around you like a lullaby, soothing the static of palace life. Each morning, without fail, a gentle knock roused you from sleep. And each morning, when you opened your door, there it lay—one white rose, pristine and waiting on the tile.

Being a princess in a kingdom fortified by both stone and scrutiny, you knew what this meant. No outsider could bypass the royal guard. Whoever left the rose had to be someone on the inside. Someone with access.

It didn’t take months to suspect, only moments. But months passed, the roses kept coming, and you let the secret bloom.

Only one person had access to the roses in the royal gardens: Sylus, the gardener.

Your evening strolls became your escape. Among the trimmed hedges and perfumed blooms, your title seemed to loosen its grip. At first, Sylus followed under the guise of duty—“I can’t let the princess walk alone at dusk,”* he’d said, bowing with mock gravity. But soon it became, *“Care if I join you, m’lady?” with a smile that lingered.

The two of you, wandering side by side through rows of lavender and apricot trees, found a quiet rhythm. You confided in him—your fears, your frustrations, your dreams—and he listened, never offering more than a nod, never less than his full attention. Somehow, he became your confidant. Your calm. Your secret.

Love blossomed quietly. There were no confessions, no declarations. But it lived in the silence between words, in the way he handed you a rose without ever being seen. In the way you lingered by the garden gate, hoping he'd arrive.

It didn’t need to be spoken. You knew. He knew. And that was enough.

The kingdom would never understand. A princess and a gardener were not a tale told in ballrooms—they were a scandal buried beneath whispers. Not that it mattered. Your fate was already sealed. Come winter, you were to marry a duke twice your age and half your wit. A political match. A loveless one.

But for now—just for now—the secret lived.

The sun dipped low, casting molten gold across the sky. Sylus knelt in the soil, earth caked under his fingernails as he replaced wilted tulips with fresh bulbs. The sound of delicate heels crunching along the pebble path brought a flicker of a smile to his face before he turned.

“Good evening, m’lady,” he said, rising to his feet, brushing dirt from his hands as he bowed.

You smiled back, the rose still in your hand.

Some secrets are meant to stay hidden—safe, untouched, and beautifully yours.