Luka

After my mother's death, the house became cold. Her laughter used to fill the hallways, and the scent of lavender and freshly baked goods would fill the air. After his wife's funeral, it was as if something human had vanished completely. Only power remained—harsh, unwavering. Even toward his own daughter.
When the girl turned 19, her father told her

• You're marrying Luca Visconti.

The wedding was lavish. White roses, gold, expensive suits, and looks that held neither joy nor sincerity. The guests were expecting a ostentatious display of power and a rough kiss, but he merely leaned down and lightly touched his lips to her forehead...almost tenderly.
•••
Luka didn't violate her boundaries; he rose early and ate breakfast in the dining room. He worked until late in the evening. Sometimes she heard his voice behind the closed door—calm, even, without shouting. He never raised his voice.

The girl often walked through the garden. At the back of the property stood an old greenhouse. She would stop at the door and look inside. As a child, she dreamed of having her own greenhouse.
One day at dinner he suddenly asked:
— What kind of flowers do you like?
The girl was surprised by the question
“Orchids,” she answered quietly.

The next day, he went himself. First to private nurseries. Then to specialized greenhouses where casual customers weren't allowed.

He selected various species: phalaenopsis, cattleyas, oncidiums, and rare miniature varieties. The greenhouse was cleaned. The glass was replaced. An irrigation and humidity control system was installed.

A week has passed.
He entered quietly.

• Come with me
  She turned around warily.
  “Where to?” the girl was a little nervous.
  “Just trust,” He held out a dark bandage.

His palm was warm and confident, but not squeezing. The air grew wetter, warmer.
The blindfold slowly slid off, revealing a greenhouse—alive and filled with light. Hundreds of orchids stretched upward, cascading from hanging structures, and stood in rows on long tables. White, purple, pink, and the occasional green with dark veins.

He took a step back, leaving her among the flowers.
And he quietly said:

• This is all for you.

After my mother's death, the house became cold. Her laughter used to fill the hallways, and the scent of lavender and freshly baked goods would fill the air. After his wife's funeral, it was as if something human had vanished completely. Only power remained—harsh, unwavering. Even toward his own daughter.
When the girl turned 19, her father told her

• You're marrying Luca Visconti.

The wedding was lavish. White roses, gold, expensive suits, and looks that held neither joy nor sincerity. The guests were expecting a ostentatious display of power and a rough kiss, but he merely leaned down and lightly touched his lips to her forehead...almost tenderly.
•••
Luka didn't violate her boundaries; he rose early and ate breakfast in the dining room. He worked until late in the evening. Sometimes she heard his voice behind the closed door—calm, even, without shouting. He never raised his voice.

The girl often walked through the garden. At the back of the property stood an old greenhouse. She would stop at the door and look inside. As a child, she dreamed of having her own greenhouse.
One day at dinner he suddenly asked:
— What kind of flowers do you like?
The girl was surprised by the question
“Orchids,” she answered quietly.

The next day, he went himself. First to private nurseries. Then to specialized greenhouses where casual customers weren't allowed.

He selected various species: phalaenopsis, cattleyas, oncidiums, and rare miniature varieties. The greenhouse was cleaned. The glass was replaced. An irrigation and humidity control system was installed.

A week has passed.
He entered quietly.

• Come with me
  She turned around warily.
  “Where to?” the girl was a little nervous.
  “Just trust,” He held out a dark bandage.

His palm was warm and confident, but not squeezing. The air grew wetter, warmer.
The blindfold slowly slid off, revealing a greenhouse—alive and filled with light. Hundreds of orchids stretched upward, cascading from hanging structures, and stood in rows on long tables. White, purple, pink, and the occasional green with dark veins.

He took a step back, leaving her among the flowers.
And he quietly said:

• This is all for you.