“Damage control. Get our lawyers on this. Make sure her name gets cleared in any investigation. And Marco? I want round-the-clock protection on her whether she likes it or not.”
“She’s going to hate it.”
“She already hates me. At least this way she’ll be alive to hate me.”
Back in my office, the tablet shows the article again. Elena’s photo, her shop, her name, all of it connected to mine. Evidence of my selfishness, my weakness, my failure to protect what matters most.
The phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number: “Flowers for you, delivered to the lobby.”
Flowers. From Elena.
The security footage shows her leaving the building two hours ago, face set, eyes red, determination in every line of her body. Shows her entering the lobby thirty minutes ago with a small bouquet. Shows her leaving it with the front desk and walking out without looking back.
The bouquet arrives in my office courtesy of building security. It’s elegant, professional, and devastating in its simplicity, black roses, three of them, tied with a white ribbon.
The card reads: “For the death of whatever this was. Don’t contact me again. -E”
Black roses. Mourning. Endings. Death.
She really does know her flowers.
Marco looks at the bouquet, then at me. “Boss—”
“Leave me.”
“But—”
“I said leave me!” The roar echoes through the office, and Marco retreats without another word.
Alone with black roses and the wreckage of the best thing to happen in fifteen years, the only option is to stare at Elena’s message and accept the truth.
She’s right to hate me. Right to end this. Right to protect herself from the disaster that loving me creates.
But that doesn’t mean I’m letting her go without a fight. Doesn’t mean I’m allowing Greco or the feds or anyone else to hurt her.
Even if she never speaks to me again, even if she sends a thousand black roses, even if she hates me until the day she dies, she’ll be protected.
Because Elena Harper might not be mine anymore.
But she’ll always be under my protection.
Whether she wants it or not.
Chapter Eleven
Elena
The apartment above Petals & Pines feels emptier than it should.
It’s been three days since I walked out of Alessandro’s penthouse. Three days since discovering my name in the Seattle Times was linked to organized crime. Three days since realizing the man who claimed to love me had destroyed my life without even blinking or a warning.
The shop has been slow, customers suddenly remembering they have other florists, other options, anywhere that isn’t associated with “The Shadow.” My phone has blown up with messages from concerned friends, nosy reporters, and one very persistent FBI agent who wants to “just chat.”
I haven’t answered any of them.
The black roses sitting on my counter mock me with their thorny perfection. I sent them to Alessandro three days ago as a final message. Done. Finished. Over.
So why does every part of me ache like something vital has been ripped away?
