My pulse jumps. Then comes the fury. The nerve he has… Noplease, no apology, just a command. As nothing happened.
I should ignore it.
Instead, I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the flowers like they might vanish if I blink. Their scent wraps around me—sweet, nostalgic, dangerous.
“He didn’t forget,” I murmur, chest tightening.
But the warmth that stirs is too fragile, too treacherous. I inhale sharply, shove it down, and tear the card in two.
“Well… neither have I.” My voice slices through the quiet. “Not the things he did. And not the ones he never did.”
I can’t bring myself to throw the flowers away.
Instead, I get ready—slow, steady, every move, deliberate.
At exactly 6:55 PM, I walk through the lobby—chin high, my purse slung casually across my body, and a small gift bag in my hand—inside a bottle of wine, wrapped in soft tissue paper, tied with a ribbon.
I wear a soft, flowy dress—lightweight, in a pale blush shade, cinched just enough at the waist to skim my curves without drawing too much attention.
On my feet, a pair of platform sandals—comfortable, giving just enough height to lift my posture, but keeping me grounded.
Everything about me says ease, grace, calm control.
Even if inside, I’m anything but calm.
And there he is.
Dorian.
He stands near the marble fireplace, commanding the space without even trying—his black suit tailored to perfection, hugging his broad shoulders and lean, powerful frame.
But it’s his hair that twists something deep inside me. Longer now—dark waves brushing the tops of his shoulders. He looks like both a fallen angel and a storm ready to break.
His eyes lock on me the second I appear. Still black as midnight. Still able to strip me bear with a single look. But under that heat—there’s exhaustion. A raw edge. The wreckage of a man who hasn’t slept.
In his hand, he holds another peony. Just one this time.
“Mu dan” he says, holding my gaze.
Before I can reply, he adds—low, deliberate, meant to strike.
“Chinese for peony… but it also means the most beautiful. The rarest.”
I don’t take it.
"I have dinner plans," I say coolly, my gaze steady, my voice cold.
"Cancel them."
"I don’t cancel on friends."
His jaw flexes, eyes darkening.
"Friends?" he repeats, bitter.
"People who matter," I clarify, sharp as glass.
I walk right past him, leaving the flower to wilt in his hand as I head toward the exit. But in one step, he’s behind me—his hand closes around my wrist, stopping me cold.
