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Then she hit me with the knockout punch.

Cassie: And I keep thinking… wouldn't it be nice if someone did those sweet, romantic things for me? Like in the movies—surprise flowers, little gestures. Sounds cheesy, but after last night, I feel like I deserve it.

That was it. That one fucking sentence.

She wasn't just the shy kindergarten teacher anymore. She was awake, bold, demanding what she wanted. And I wanted to be the one to give it to her—every damn thing she was craving.

"Dimitri!" I barked into the intercom, grabbing my coat.

"Boss?"

"Get the car. I'm heading out."

"Where to?"

I paused. "Flower shop."

Chicago's streets blurred past the tinted windows of my Bentley. I was in the back, staring out, wondering what the hell I was doing. Gennady Sokolov, the man who made the city's underworld shake, was on his way to buy flowers. For a woman. If my enemies had caught wind of this, they would've had a field day.

But I couldn't stop. This need to protect her, to spoil her, was stronger than reason.

Elsa's Florist was tucked on a quiet downtown street, open 24/7 for rich bastards like me with last-minute demands. The owner, a sixty-something Italian woman who had supposedly done arrangements for the Pope, looked up as I walked in, her eyes widening.

"Mr. Sokolov!" She hustled over, all smiles. "You, in person? What do you need?"

"Roses," I said, keeping it short. "The best red ones you've got."

Her eyes lit up with understanding. A guy like me didn't buy flowers for no reason. "This way."

She led me to a refrigerated room packed with roses, but my eyes locked on a cluster in the corner—twelve deep red blooms, so perfect they looked like they were bleeding silk. They were stunning, just like her.

"Those," I said, pointing.

"Excellent choice!" Elsa beamed. "Fresh from Holland this morning, hand-picked. They'll stay gorgeous for at least a week."

A week. Long enough for her to enjoy them.

"Gift wrap?" she asked. "We've got silk ribbons, custom—"

"Keep it simple," I cut her off. "And a card."

She handed me an ivory card and a pen. I stared at it, and for the first time in my life, I was at a loss. Words were my weapon—carefully chosen in boardrooms, deadly in negotiations. But now? My mind was blank.

What did I write? I'm thinking of you? Too forward. Hope you like these? Too weak. I want to see you again? Too much.

Elsa sensed my hesitation and slipped away, giving me space. I closed my eyes, thinking of our texts, her craving for romance, for someone to make her feel special. She wanted to be remembered, cherished. And I wanted her to know she wasn't just a fling—not to me.

I wrote: "To my rose, You deserve every beautiful thing. —G"

The second I finished, I realized I was already planning our next meeting. This wasn't just a one-night thing, not just about her body. I wanted her time, her thoughts, her everything.

This hunger was more dangerous than any drug, exposing a weakness I couldn't afford. But picturing her face when she got those flowers? That made it worth it.

"Wrap it," I told Elsa, handing her the card. "Send it to this address. Now."

I scribbled down the school's address. I had known where she lived—checked that out weeks ago—but she didn't need to know that.

Elsa took the paper, her eyes curious but smart enough not to ask questions. "Done, Mr. Sokolov. It'll be there."