Gideon went rigid.
The silencethat followed was worse than shouting. Her admission hung between them, shameful and fragile.
His jaw clenched.
She didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t pressure—not yet. But the silence between them thickened.
He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, and the movement made her lift her eyes to his. Whatever she saw in them made her blink once, then brace.
“And you didn’t tell me.”
She shrugged. A poor imitation of indifference. “It’s harmless. Just dumb gifts from someone with too much money and not enough sanity.”
He didn’t move. His fingers flexed once at his sides.
And then, he saw it.
Hertell.
A tiny tug of her bottom lip, left side first. A flicker of hesitation so small she probably didn’t even notice she was doing it.
She always did that when she was holding something back.
She wasn’t brushing this off.
She was hiding it.
A slow breath left him. Measured. Controlled.
“You weren’t supposed to care,” she added quietly, then hated herself the second it slipped out.
The fire in his gaze dimmed, replaced by something raw.
He leaned in. His voice dropped. “Wrong.”
She flinched.
Gideon backed off a fraction, not far. Enough for his anger to cool. He exhaled slowly, as if reigning himself in.
“Tell me everything,” he said. “Please.”
Her throat tightened. She wanted to. God, she wanted to.
But saying it aloud would make it real.
“It’s not your problem,” she whispered.
Gideon didn’t move.
Then, he said softly, “It became my problem the second I met you.”
Something in his voice broke her.
She dropped her gaze, blinking hard. She wouldn’t cry. Not over roses. Not over fear. Not over him.
But the pressure had been building for days. Weeks.
“Look at me,” he said.
