“Where is it now?”
Edward cleared his throat. “Mrs. de Luca... disposed of it, sir. Shortly after it arrived.”
Something dark and possessive unfurled in my chest. “Disposed of it how?”
“I believe she put the flower in the garbage disposal and the vase in the recycling.” His gaze shifted to the kitchen. “And the note in the trash.”
The note. I needed to see it.
“Where is my wife now?” The word still felt strange on my tongue.
“In the music room, sir.”
Fatigue forgotten, I nodded sharply and headed for the kitchen. I crossed to the trash bin and dug through coffee grounds and fruit peels, past eggshells and a folded paper napkin, until my fingers closed around a crumpled ball of cardstock.
Straightening, I smoothed the note against the counter. My jaw clenching as I read the flowing script.
I miss seeing you. You were the highlight of my day.
No signature. No clue to the sender's identity beyond the intimate tone that suggested a history, a connection. Someone who'd seen her often enough to miss her.
The blood in my veins turned to ice, then fire. Who the fuck was sending my wife flowers? Who had the audacity to tell her she was missed? And more importantly, why hadn't she told me about it?
“Edward,” I called. He appeared in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral. “How long was my wife in the building before this arrived?”
“The delivery came about an hour before Mrs. de Luca returned home.” He hesitated. “Sir, if I may—”
“You may not.” Cutting him off, I shoved the note into my pocket. Edward's lips pressed into a thin line as I stalked past him. The hallway seemed endless, my pulse pounding in my ears as I approached the closed door of the music room. I hadn't been in there for weeks—not since the anniversary of Gabriel's death, when I'd played for hours until my fingers ached and the grief had temporarily subsided.
The room was my sanctuary, the one place in the penthouse that was truly mine. The thought of Cecelia in there, receiving flowers from another man while living under my roof, burned like acid.
I wrenched the door open, prepared to unleash the storm brewing inside me… and froze.
Cecelia moved across the bare hardwood like water given form, her body twisting and flowing to music I couldn't hear. Her back arched in a graceful curve, arms extended, head thrown back to expose the vulnerable line of her throat. Shewore only dance tights and a loose crop top. The fabric clung to her sweat-dampened skin as she executed a perfect pirouette.
The anger drained from me for a moment, replaced by something dangerously close to awe.
She danced as if the music flowing through her earbuds had possessed her completely.
Her hair was loose, dark strands clinging to her neck and face. A sheen of sweat made her skin glow in the fading afternoon light. Her bare feet barely seemed to touch the floor as she leapt, suspended in air for a heartbeat before landing with impossible softness.
I couldn't look away. Couldn't move. Couldn't fucking breathe.
She spun again, faster this time, building momentum—then stumbled slightly as she caught sight of me in the doorway. Her body jerked to a halt, one hand flying to her ear to yank out an earbud as her chest heaved with exertion.
Our eyes locked. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was her ragged breathing and the faint tinny music spilling from the dangling earbud.
In that suspended moment, I almost forgot why I'd come. Almost let myself be distracted by the flush on her cheeks, the wild tangle of her hair, the way her crop top exposed a strip of toned stomach.
Then the note in my pocket seemed to burn against my thigh, and reality crashed back in.
“Our marriage needs to look real to everyone,” I said, my voice tight as I stepped into the room. “That means telling your boyfriend to back off.”
Confusion flickered across her face. “What are you talking about?”
I pulled the crumpled note from my pocket and held it up. “I'm talking about this. And the rose that came with it.”
The color drained from her face and her eyes widened as they fixed on the paper in my hand. “You went through the trash?”
