A lackey answering.
Boxes. Packages. Being carried inside.
The door shut.
He sniffed.
Then his footsteps crossed the wooden floor, heavy and unhurried.
The living room door eased open. He poked his head through. His gaze dropped to my belly—then snapped back up, eyes widening.
He stepped inside.
Holding a bouquet of flowers.
Somewhere in the distance, I registered the helicopter lifting off—but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from them.
Dark red roses. Perfectly bloomed. Tiny white sprigs threaded between them. Diamantés caught the light, glittering against the petals. Cream-and-gold tissue paper wrapped the bouquet with deliberate care. Expensive. Thoughtful. Insulting.
He closed the distance, moving toward me.
The shock was fading—but I still couldn’t look away from the flowers.
He raised them toward me, and I stared at him in horror.
“I didn’t know,” he murmured.
My eyes dropped to the flowers.
Before I knew it, they were in my hands. My fingers curled around the tissue until I felt the long, rigid stems beneath.
Lielit… Bouda whispered as I drew in a deep breath, forcing myself to ignore his scent.
He gasped—his hands still extended—as shocked as I was that I held them.
His lips parted. Words formed.
I didn’t hear a single one.
I swung the flowers like a club, smashing them into his head, his face, his shoulders. My arms moved faster than my brain.
His arms flew up, shielding his precious face.
Petals, leaves, whole rosebuds exploded into the air. The bouquet grew lighter, and I glanced at my weapon.
Beheaded.
I grabbed the nearest thing beside me—a marble sculpture from the side table.
He was already running, but I still hurled it, aiming for his head.
It struck his right shoulder.
I sighed when I heard him grunt in pain.
Fucking flowers.
I kicked the remnants across the floor, tipped my face toward the ceiling, and screamed.
