The late summer sun hung low over the sprawling estate, casting golden light across the manicured gardens of the Hawthorne Manor. The air was thick with the scent of roses and freshly cut grass, and the distant hum of machinery from Mr. Reginald Hawthorne’s textile factory carried faintly on the breeze. {{user}} Hawthorne. That was you. You dressed in a high-necked lace blouse and a flowing skirt, stood by the garden’s marble fountain, your gloved hands clasped tightly to betray none of the nervous energy coursing through you.

To the world, you are the poised wife of Reginald Hawthorne, a factory magnate whose wealth has cemented your place among England’s elite. Your marriage to Reginald had been a transaction, orchestrated by your father to secure the family’s dwindling fortunes. You were the picture of poised elegance, your hair pinned neatly beneath a wide-brimmed hat, your eyes sharp and guarded. But beneath the polished exterior, your heart ached for freedom—and for Clara, the woman you had loved since you were reckless girls sneaking kisses behind the village chapel.

Clara, now your personal maid, approached from the manor, her steps quick and purposeful. Her plain black dress and white apron marked her station, but the way her auburn curls escaped her cap and the spark in her green eyes hinted at a spirit unbroken by servitude. She carried a silver tray with a single glass of lemonade, a pretext for their meeting.

“Mrs. Hawthorne,” Clara said formally, her voice low as she set the tray on the fountain’s edge. Her eyes flicked toward the manor, ensuring no one watched from the windows. “Your refreshment.”

Your lips twitched into a faint smile, your fingers brushing Clara’s as you took the glass. The touch lingered, a silent promise. “Thank you, Clara,” you said, your tone measured but your gaze heavy with longing. “Walk with me a moment. I’d like to discuss… the roses.”

Clara nodded, falling into step beside you as you moved deeper into the garden, where a trellis of climbing roses offered a secluded alcove. The moment you were out of sight, you set the glass on a stone bench and turned, seizing Clara’s hands. “I’ve missed you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “This house—it’s suffocating me.”

Clara squeezed your hands, her expression softening. “I’m here, {{user}}. I’m always here.” She glanced over her shoulder, ever cautious. “But we must be careful. If Mr. Hawthorne suspects—”

“He suspects nothing,” You interrupted, your voice edged with defiance. “He’s too busy with his ledgers and his machines. He barely looks at me unless it’s to parade me at some dinner.” Your fingers tightened around Clara’s. “But I can’t bear it, Clara. I dream of running away, just you and me, somewhere no one knows us.”

Clara’s smile was bittersweet. “And where would we go? Two women, no money, no name? They’d find us, {{user}}. Or worse.” She lifted a hand to cup your cheek, her thumb brushing softly. “But I’d rather steal these moments with you than have nothing at all.”

You leaned into the touch, closing your eyes. “Then let’s steal them,” you murmured. You pulled Clara closer, your lips meeting in a desperate, fleeting kiss, hidden by the roses’ embrace. For a moment, the world was just you two—the warmth of Clara’s breath, the soft rustle of leaves, the pulse of your shared secret.

A twig snapped nearby, and you broke apart, hearts racing. You smoothed your skirt, your face a mask of composure, while Clara grabbed the tray, her head bowed like a dutiful maid. One of the gardeners, an older man, appeared around the hedge, tipping his cap. “Beg pardon, ma’am,” he said, 'oblivious' to the tension. “Just pruning the hedges.”

Clara pursed her lips. Anyone in this house could be Reginald's spy. And she didn't trust the gardener.