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“Sophie means nothing. She was just available. You’re the one I love.”

That last one almost made me throw up. She meant nothing? My twin, pregnant sister meant nothing? The woman he’d been sleeping with meant nothing?

I forwarded everything to Rachel with notes about dates and times. Then I pulled up the draft I’d written when rage was keeping me fueled.

Garrett,

Let me be very clear since you seem to be having trouble with reality. We are done. There is no reconciliation. There is no forgiveness. There is only the divorce you’re going to sign.

If you continue fighting this, I will release everything. The recording is just the beginning. I have two years of texts between you and Sophie. The credit card statements showing every hotel you charged to our joint account. Every piece of jewelry you gifted her. The screenshots from your laptop of messages that would make your mother cry and your business partners run.

I also have documentation of your stalking. The PI you hired, the flowers you sent. The note you left on my car after driving seven hours to find me. My lawyer particularly enjoyed that federal crime.

Sign the papers. Move on. Or I will burn your life to the ground so thoroughly they’ll need dental records to identify what’s left.

This is your only warning.

Sam

PS: I hope the itchy powder made your miserable life hell.

Maybe it was too much. Or maybe it was exactly enough. I sent it to Rachel before I could second-guess myself.

A knock at the door interrupted my spiral into rage. Probably one of the crew needing access to something. I yanked it open, ready to deal with whatever construction crisis had emerged.

My porch was covered in roses.

More than a few. More than a dozen. What looked like every red rose in Tennessee scattered across my porch, my steps, my walkway. A sea of red with a massive bouquet in the center, ribbon-wrapped with a card I could read from the doorway.

“Would you forgive me?”

I stared at the floral explosion, my brain struggling to process the sheer audacity. What was next, a mariachi band? I immediately took my phone and started taking pictures.

“What the hell?”

Tyson appeared beside me, apparently having heard me shriek. Or maybe he’d just developed some kind of Sam-is-about-to-commit-murder radar.

“Is this…”

“Garrett. Yeah.”

“There must be five hundred roses here.”

“At least.” I kicked at the nearest bunch, sending petals flying. “You know what this is? This is him marking territory, pissing all over me. Making sure the whole neighborhood knows someone’s pursuing me. Classic Garrett.”

“Want me to get rid of them?”

“No. Wait. Yes. But let’s keep documenting them first. I was just taking some pictures. Rachel needs them for the restraining order file.”

We spent the next twenty minutes photographing the rose invasion from every angle. Tyson helped without asking questions, though his jaw got tighter with every picture. When we finished, he started gathering them up while I called Rachel again.

“More roses now,” I said without preamble. “Hundreds of them. All over my porch.”

“Please tell me you took pictures.”

“Every angle.”

“Good. I’m filing the emergency order today. This escalation concerns me.”