The air in the Vaughn residence that morning was filled with the scent of lavender and jasmine tea. The large windows were left open, allowing sunlight to stream in and dance across the marble floors. Celeste sat in the reading room, on a soft cream-colored sofa, wearing a delicate satin nightgown, her hair half-braided and cascading down her back.
On her lap lay an antique wooden box, its contents brimming with old letters and documents belonging to the Vaughn family. Lord Vaughn—Alistair's father—had entrusted them to her before leaving for his morning walk with the butler.
Celeste smiled softly as she read the elegant, old-fashioned handwriting. Some of the letters were love notes from past generations, while others contained business plans and the Vaughn family's remarkably long-term visions for the future.
Footsteps sounded from the staircase. Celeste didn't need to turn around. Alistair.
"I looked for you in the kitchen. Turns out you're here, Mrs. Vaughn," he said with a lazy smile, his hair still disheveled from sleep.
"You haven't showered yet?"
"I caught the scent of tea and a wave of longing. So I thought I'd postpone the shower," he replied, sitting beside Celeste.
His eyes traced the letters in his wife's lap. "Father gave them to you?"
Celeste nodded. "He said… once someone becomes part of the Vaughn family, they have the right to know its history."
Alistair chuckled softly. "That means you. Not me. Good. Father grew fond of you faster than he ever did of me."
"Don't be jealous," Celeste teased. "But honestly… I'm moved reading all this. I never knew there was so much love and sacrifice in the Vaughn family."
Alistair plucked a letter from Celeste's hands and skimmed it. "My great-grandmother wrote poems for her husband every wedding anniversary. So romantic, huh? Meanwhile, I prefer spontaneous flattery."
Celeste turned to him with an amused look. "For example?"
Alistair gently cupped her chin. "For example… I may be the heir to millions, but your embrace is worth more than all my shares."
Celeste laughed, swatting his arm.
"And one more… If I had to choose between owning the largest business empire in Europe or kissing your lips every morning—I'd pick both. Because I'm greedy. And I don't want to lose either."
Celeste shook her head, blushing, but unable to suppress a wide smile.
"I was thinking," she said softly after a moment. "Maybe I could write a letter too. For us… for the future. For our child someday."
Alistair froze for a second. "Child…?"
"Not now," Celeste quickly clarified. "I mean, one day. When the time and our hearts are ready."
Alistair bowed his head, pressing a reverent kiss to Celeste's hand. "Then that letter will be the most precious legacy. Because I know our child will grow from love… not just noble blood."
Celeste leaned against his shoulder, her eyes closing, her heart warm. She knew her life with Alistair wouldn't be perfect—but it would be real. Full of laughter, sweet nothings, letters, and love that bloomed like an endless spring.
"I don't think I've ever seen you this serious," Alistair murmured as Celeste remained absorbed in the old letters. He tilted his head, studying his wife's serene face as her eyes traced each line of writing as if reading the pages of fate itself.
Celeste smiled faintly. "I'm just… touched. I was born and raised in chaos, and now I'm sitting in a centuries-old family home, reading love letters between your ancestors. It feels like… a dream made real."
Alistair didn't respond, but his hand reached out, gently stroking Celeste's head before softly combing through her hair. "I used to think this house was just a place I lived in. But since you arrived, it feels alive."
Celeste lifted her face, gazing at him silently. There was no more hesitation in her eyes. No more fear. Only a spark of conviction, slowly growing.
"Alistair…" she whispered, "If I write a letter for us… will you read it one day?"
Alistair pressed a reverent kiss to Celeste's fingers. "Every word. Even if it's just about how insufferable I was that day."
Celeste giggled, then placed all the letters on the small table beside the sofa before taking Alistair's hand and pulling him to his feet.
"Where to?" he asked.
Celeste led him to the large balcony overlooking the garden. A gentle breeze greeted them, lifting strands of her loosely tied hair.
"They say a beautiful morning should be cherished with the one you love," she murmured.
Alistair stepped closer, wrapping his arms around Celeste's waist. "Then allow me to be grateful every day. Because every morning now means having you."
"Flirt," Celeste retorted, ducking her head to hide a shy smile.
"Then let me make it clearer… I love you, Celeste Carter Vaughn. With all my messy past and whatever complicated future awaits, I still want to live my life with you. To write our own story. To be an imperfect couple who chooses each other every day."
Celeste closed her eyes for a moment, letting his words sink in, piercing through every lingering doubt. And when she opened them again, her lips formed only one word.
"Yes."
"Yes to what?" Alistair grinned.
"Yes to everything. To love letters, mornings on the balcony, and honest love like this."
She rose on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to her husband's cheek—not hurriedly, but softly and warmly. Like a silent promise, growing slowly but surely.
From a distance, Lord Vaughn, who had just returned from his morning walk, stood at the edge of the stone staircase with a knowing smile. He watched them for a moment before clearing his throat lightly.
"You two look happy this morning," he remarked as he approached. "But allow me to ask…"
They both turned to him.
"...when will I get a grandchild?"
Celeste immediately lowered her head, her cheeks burning, while Alistair laughed and shrugged. "Depends on my wife, Father. But if you hear a baby crying tomorrow… don't be surprised."
Lord Vaughn shook his head slightly. "You two really are the most adorable couple in this family."
The sun continued to rise, and that day became one Celeste would remember for the rest of her life. The day love no longer felt foreign. The day she knew: home wasn't just a building, but the person who held you when you were weary.
And for Celeste, that home was Alistair.