Chapter 1 - The Confession Among PetalsThe morning light filtering through the glass storefront of my flower shop cast pale green shadows across the marble counter where I was arranging a batch of deep crimson roses.
Vincent Russo walked in, but he didn't approach the counter right away. He stopped near a rack of potted succulents, keeping a respectful, deliberate distance—a boundary he had meticulously maintained ever since the night outside the restaurant.
"You're here early," Vincent said, his dark eyes meeting mine with a quiet intensity that always made my breath catch.
"Flowers don't wait for business hours, Vincent," I replied, forcing my hands to remain steady as I snipped a thorny stem. "Neither do customers who order hydrangeas for corporate galas at the last minute."
He walked slowly toward the counter, placing a small, unmarked envelope beside my cutting shears. I recognized the cream-colored cardstock instantly. It matched the card he had left on my windshield after the wedding—the one that read, You stayed. That matters more than dancing.
"What is this?" I asked, my fingers hovering over the paper.
"An invitation," Vincent said quietly. "Not to dinner. Not to a gala where people whisper behind silver spoons. Just... an open door. Whenever you're ready to walk through it without feeling like you're escaping."
I stared at the envelope, a sudden surge of heat flushing through my chest. For three years, I had kept everyone at arm's length. I had built a fortress of petals, shears, and early-morning routines to keep out anyone who might ask too many questions. Yet here was the most feared man in Manhattan, a man whose enemies vanished into the East River, offering me patience. The unfairness of it—that a monster in the eyes of the city could be softer to my broken pieces than anyone else—frustrated me beyond measure.
"Why?" I asked, my voice cracking slightly. "Why are you doing this, Vincent? You don't know me. You know my shadow. You know the panic attacks. Why waste your time on someone who is half-destroyed?"
Vincent didn't flinch. He took one step closer, his gaze unwavering. "Because I know what it’s like to live in a room that catches fire, Maya. And I know what it’s like to realize nobody is coming back to open the door."
The words hit me like a physical blow. The shears slipped from my fingers, clattering loudly against the zinc counter. I gripped the edges of the table, my knuckles turning white as the air rushed out of my lungs.
"You think you know," I whispered, the long-buried bitterness finally breaking through the ice. "You think because you run this city, because you deal with debts and danger, you understand what it’s like to be trapped while the walls melt."
"Tell me," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a register so tender and absolute that it completely disarmed me. "Tell me who did this to you."
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And right there, surrounded by the smell of roses and sweet peas, the dam finally broke. I pulled up my left sleeve, sliding the fabric all the way to my elbow to expose the pale, jagged, silvery tracks of scar tissue that wound around my wrists. I didn't pull the fabric back down this time. I looked him dead in the eyes and said the name I hadn't spoken aloud in three years.
"Julian Vance."
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