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He nods once—a small gesture of acknowledgment—and then walks away without a word.
As night falls and I retreat to my modest quarters in the staff wing, I reflect on this new life I've stepped into. It’s exhausting but oddly satisfying. There’s security here that I've never known before—an unsettling comfort amidst opulence and mystery.
My thoughts drift to Valen again—his silent observations, his unreadable expressions. The man is an enigma wrapped in layers of wealth and secrecy. Despite myself, I'm growing more curious about him by the hour.
Who is he really? And why do I feel this inexplicable pull towards him?
I shake off these thoughts and focus on settling into bed. Tomorrow will bring more tasks and likely more questions about my enigmatic employer.
For now, all I can do is rest and prepare for whatever comes next in this strange new chapter of my life on Armstrong.
CHAPTER 6
VALEN
Ariana moves with a quiet efficiency as she dusts the ancient artifacts lining the shelves of my study. The sunlight streaming through the high windows catches in her hair, casting a warm halo around her head. I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her work.
"You have quite the touch," I say, breaking the silence.
She jumps slightly, her hand jerking away from an ornate vase. "Oh! I didn't see you there."
"I seem to have that effect on people," I reply, a smirk playing at my lips. "But really, you handle those relics better than most of my staff."
Her cheeks flush a delightful shade of pink. "Thank you, sir."
"Valen," I correct. "Call me Valen."
"Valen," she repeats, her voice barely above a whisper.
I step closer, my gaze fixed on her. "And you're Ariana."
"Yes," she says, nodding quickly. Her eyes flicker to the vase and back to me. "I'll get back to work."
"Please, don't let me interrupt." I watch as she resumes dusting, her movements more deliberate now, as if she's hyper-aware of my presence.
Later, in the dining room, I find her pouring coffee for some of the staff. She moves with such grace, each action precise and fluid.
"You're quite skilled at that," I comment, stepping into the room.
She glances up, startled again. "I... thank you."
"I mean it," I continue, taking a seat at the table. "The way you pour coffee... it's almost like an art form."
She stifles a giggle and then looks mortified for doing so. "It's just coffee."
"It's not 'just' anything when done with care," I say. "Not a single drop was wasted. That's a skill. It's attention to detail that sets apart the ordinary from the extraordinary."
Her blush deepens. "You're very kind."
"Kindness has nothing to do with it." I meet her gaze head-on. "I merely speak the truth."
Her eyes dart away first, focusing on the cup she's filling. Her hands tremble slightly but still, she doesn't spill a drop.
Throughout the week, our paths cross more often than not—whether by design or fate is anyone's guess. Each time we exchange words or glances, she becomes a little less guarded and I find myself more drawn to her earnest nature.
In the library one afternoon, she's organizing books on a high shelf when I walk in.
"You might need a ladder for that," I suggest.
