“You have a lot of rare pieces of art here,” I comment, unable to believe that this house is filled with such expensive and exceptional art.

“Heaven’s Gate is filled with art work collected over the years,” he admits. “In fact, several times a year, the art collection from Heaven’s Gate is on display at the National Gallery.”

“Amazing,” I whisper in awe.

My mind boggles considering this life he has lived in. This life he was brought up in. And after living such a life, filled with this amount of wealth and privilege, how did he survive the last five years with me in my simple and casual existence? Our life in India was that of a regular couple living in a metropolitan city. Of course, we were doing well in business and we lived comfortably, but that was nothing compared to this.

Damien leads me through the kitchens and introduces the old housekeeper, Mrs. Wells, and the French chef, Michel, to me. Although they greet me politely, I don’t miss the curious glances they exchange with one another.

“Miss Singh doesn’t eat beef. So please ensure the menus accommodate her preferences while we’re here,” Damien tells the two of them.

My heart warms and I crush his hand that is already entwined with mine.

“Thank you, you remembered,” I tell him. “I hope it won’t be a problem for the staff.”

“Of course not!”

We leave the kitchens and tour another wing of the house.

“I’m sure there’s an army of staff working all around the house during the day! So where do they stay?” I ask.

“Most of them live either in the village close by or in the attics on the top floors.”

We come to stand in front of a set of double doors and Damien hesitates slightly before opening them. But before I can ponder on that, my eyes land inside the spacious room.

“Wow,” I breathe out, taking in the beautiful Grand Piano in the center of the room, surrounded by several chairs.

“This is the music room,” he tells me.

A flicker of sadness crosses his eyes but he blinks it away. I walk towards the piano and lift the lid, running my hands over the keys.

“Do you play?” I ask him because at this point, I’m positive that what I’ve known and learnt about him in the last five years was only the tip of the iceberg.

Damien shakes his head in refusal and I thank my stars. At least he hadn’t kept that bit from me.

A throat clears in the background and we both swivel to see Gellar and Mrs. Wells standing at the door.

“Forgive our intrusion, Your Grace, but we wanted to give you this,” Gellar says with a sheepish smile directed at Damien.