The flowers aren't unusual.
Caterina orders flowers regularly. For her house, for events, for gifts. She used to get flowers delivered to her home weekly before I forced her to cut that back. But cutting them off completely would be suspicious, so I allowed her to continue a certain number of deliveries to the house.
But having a delivery tonight is unexpected. Every aspect of security tonight has been planned down to the last detail. A flower delivery was not one of them.
I catch her eye.
She holds my gaze, her expression calm and unreadable. She gives a subtle, almost imperceptible shake of her head.
Don't worry.
Easy for her to say. She isn't the one who will be on watch when the delivery truck arrives. She isn't the one who will have to clear the vehicle, the driver, and the arrangement itself before it is allowed anywhere near her house.
"Anything else?" Oliver asks, oblivious to the silent conversation happening across the room.
"That's it for now," Caterina says. "Thank you, Oliver."
"You're welcome," Oliver says, gathering his tablet and notepad. "I'll send the updated schedule over in five."
He stands, gives me a brief, nervous nod, and lets himself out of the office.
The door clicks shut behind him, leaving the two of us alone in the quiet, newly secure room.
She looks down at her desk, tidying a stack of papers, avoiding my gaze.
"Flowers, Caterina?" I ask, my voice flat. I keep my posture relaxed, my hands loose at my sides.
She looks up, and for a second, I see the defiance I am used to. The flash of challenge in her eyes. But it's gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by something else. Weariness, maybe. Or calculation.
"A houseful of my family deserves to look nice," she says. "It's been stressful for everyone. A little color won't hurt."
"A little color could be a bomb," I say. "You know that."
Her jaw tightens. "It's not a bomb, Adrian."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because no one at Botanica is trying to kill me or gives a damn about my father's legacy," she says. "They're flowers. They make people happy. They make a house feel like a home. It's one of the few normal things I can still do."
Normal.
That word is a trap in this life. We both know it.
"They could be intercepted," I say. "They could be swapped. The driver could be a problem. The van could have something else in it."
"They won't be," she says, and I can all but feel her coming up behind me. "They'll just be a driver and a van and flowers."
She wraps her arms around my waist and rests her cheek against my back, between my shoulder blades. She feels warm and soft. She feels like everything I want and everything I can't have.
I cover her hands with mine, linking our fingers. "You can't just add things to the plan, Caterina. Not tonight."
"I know. I'm sorry," she murmurs into my shirt, snuggling closer. "It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I shouldn't have done it without talking to you."
I close my eyes. I can feel the soft press of her breasts against my back. The warmth of her breath through the fabric of my shirt. The clean, sweet scent of her hair.
She is a weakness. A vulnerability. And she is using it on purpose.
"One day, Cat," I say. "One day, this isn't going to work on me."
