A beat.
“…but—”
“Elizabeth.”
“I’m just saying,” she continues quickly, “maybe don’t burn it all down before you actually know what happened.”
“I know what happened,” I say. “He left.”
Again.
That’s the part that matters. That’s the part that always matters.
She studies me for a long moment.
“You liked him,” she says quietly.
I don’t answer. Because I did.
Which is exactly why I’m shutting this down now. Before it turns into something worse.
“Tell your friends at the auction to keep the money,” I say finally, setting the knife down with a little more force than necessary. “Tell them he doesn’t have to reschedule anything. I’m out.”
“You’re really done.”
“I’m really done.”
Because I have to be.
The flowers arrive the next morning.
Of course they do.
They’re beautiful. White roses, soft greenery, something delicate and intentional that feels like it was chosen—not just ordered.
There’s a card.
Of course there is.
Elizabeth hovers behind me like this is a live event.
“Open it,” she says.
“I am opening it.”
“You’re opening it very slowly.”
“I’m building suspense.”
“For who?”
“For me.”
I finally pull the card out and read it.
My throat tightens.
Which is even ruder than the flowers.
