Francesca

I HEAD BACK INTO THE apartment, cleansed. My darling Owen is back from his gym session—he often exercises late at night to help his sleep.

"How were the welcome drinks?" he asks. He's a man of few words, expressing himself through his creations (he's behind all the architectural innovations here).

"Oh, simply magical," I tell him. No point in dwelling on the negative and mentioning our trespassers. "Come here and let me look at you, my beautiful man." I reach for his face and hold it between my hands, study the dark lines of his brow and hair, the sharp hook of his nose, the high cheekbones. I've always been drawn to beautiful things and people. Broken ones, too. And Owen is definitely a little broken. His mother walked out when he was a teen. I mean, from what little he's told me, she was clearly unhinged. Sorry: struggled with her mental health. I just wish he would share more. I want to help him heal. Besides, I can empathize with absent mothers: it's honestly a wonder I turned out as emotionally intelligent as I did.

But I'd be lying if I said his darkness wasn't attractive to me. It was something I noticed at our first meeting in a London members' club, to discuss my vision for The Manor. I saw the way people turned to look at him. Drawn by his raw magnetism, his presence. The sense of mystery. I caught sight of us in the large mirror opposite and couldn't help but notice how fantastic we looked together. His darkness to my light. A worthy match.

"So," I remember asking, as I sipped my sparkling tea, "what attracts you to the project?"

He thought before speaking. My love's sentences are as precisely and economically constructed as his designs. "I was going to turn it down at first," he said, "when your office called me. I haven't worked in the UK for years. But I couldn't stop thinking about it." I intuited a world of meaning—and damage?—beneath the restraint. And also something that didn't quite make sense.

"My office called you?" I said, confused. There was clearly some misunderstanding: they'd done no such thing. He'd made the first contact, surely, when he sent over his pitch? But I didn't make too much of it: I could feel the hand of Fate at work. Besides, as he talked through his plans, I felt myself practically levitating with excitement at the vision and scale. He shared my ambition, knew exactly what the place needed. It felt like the two of us—this partnership, professional as it was then—was meant to be.

We married only a couple of months ago after a whirlwind courtship. When you know, you know. You know?

"Ready for bed?" I ask. I let the vintage silk gown slip from my shoulder. I anoint myself every day in sweet almond and rosemary oils: in the dim light, I know my skin looks like satin.

He nods, silently.

I beam at him. "Just one little thing I wanted to check first. The trees are coming down tomorrow, yes?"

He nods. "In the morning. We'll start excavating later."

"That's wonderful news," I say. It is, though I do wish the Treehouses had been completed on schedule. I did try and tell Owen how important they were to me! We shouldn't need to have construction vehicles here on this very special weekend. It's not a good look. But, ever the optimist, I opened up bookings for the autumn and now we haven't a day to spare.

Calm, I remind myself. Serenity and calm. That's what everyone expects of me, including Owen.

I take his hand and lead him through to the bedroom, feeling the calluses on his fingers. Not what you'd expect of the hands of an architect, really.

As we approach the bed, I spot something on the pillow. A single black feather. Bizarre. The windows have been open, so it could have blown in. Still, I'll try to have a word with housekeeping tomorrow as it's a little sloppy of them to miss it.

For now, I'm going to exist in this moment. I brush the feather onto the floor. Then I let my robe follow, a whisper of silk against the boards.

Now I can really be myself.