The Chateau Dubois felt less like a home and more like a gilded cage. Each perfectly arranged vase of lilies, each antique tapestry depicting generations of Dubois glory, seemed to whisper of secrets and expectations Isabelle didn't understand, didn’t know if she even wanted to understand. She longed for the sun-drenched fields of Provence, for the familiar scent of her own small flower shop, for the Henri she had fallen in love with – the unassuming gardener, not the powerful CEO trapped in a web of family intrigue.