Chapter 22
Dahlia
I’m already regretting coming down here. The wood floor creaks under my feet as I step into the doorway, giving me away before I can turn back. Xander’s head lifts, and those clear gray eyes snap to mine from where he sits at the island.
He looks good. Too good. Still in the black shirt from last night, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the collar open just enough to show a flash of his throat. His hair’s a little mussed, jaw rough with stubble, and now he’s wearing glasses. Glasses.
Is he doing this on purpose?
He leans back slightly, calmly watching me over the rim of his mug, and I can’t decide if I want to leave or demand to know why he looks like that at eight in the morning.
I barely slept last night. My mind kept going over it again and again, haunting me with the fact that I’d been the one who nearly kissed him.
That Xander had been the one to pull back.
I’ve tried to come up with a million excuses, from being drugged to straight-up insanity.
But the truth is, in that moment, I wasn’t thinking.
My mind went completely blank the second his warmth brushed across my face.
His touch had been gentle, every movement careful, like he was scared he might hurt me. A man who wears power like armor, who’s killed people without blinking, handled me like something fragile.
And I’m pathetic, because I wanted him to pull me in and kiss me like his life depended on it, to erase everything else. Just for a second, I wanted to forget that he’s a monster. Forget that I’m trapped in his castle. Just let myself drown in him.
If he hadn’t pulled away, I would’ve kissed him. Would’ve dragged him closer and let everything else disappear. For that one second, I was ready to forget it all. Who he is. What he’s done. Chosen the man who scares the hell out of me, just to feel that alive again.
Heat creeps up my neck, and Xander smirks, like he can see every thought flickering across my face.
The corner of his mouth curves, slow and knowing.
I slide one foot backward, and his smirk deepens.
A small dimple cuts into his cheek. I’ve never noticed it before.
There’s a taunt in his gaze, a quiet dare to stay.
To see what happens if I stop pretending I’m not affected by him.
It takes everything in me to move. My pulse kicks hard, and before I can think, I spin on my heel and bolt for the hall. I want to call it bravery, but really, it’s self-preservation. The longer I’m near him, the easier it is to forget why I shouldn’t be.
My quick escape has me turning the corner too fast and running straight into Marco.
He laughs, steadying me with a hand on my shoulder. “Easy there. Where’s the fire?”
“Behind me,” I mutter, which only makes him grin wider.
I risk a glance over my shoulder. Xander’s already stepped out of the kitchen, his secretary trailing close behind. Of course. Because the universe clearly hates me.
Marco follows my look, then raises one brow. “I didn’t take you for somebody who runs.”
“Really? Because I did.” I flash him a quick smile that’s more panic than charm and start backing away.
“Guess I stand corrected.” He steps aside, clearing a path and giving me an escape route.
“Thanks for the pep talk,” I toss over my shoulder, already halfway down the hall. My socks slide on the polished floor, and I catch myself on the wall before I face-plant. No idea where I’m going until a familiar doorway catches my eye.
Warm morning light spills through the glass panes, painting the greenhouse in shades of orange and red. The air is heavy with the scent of damp soil and old wood, that mix of earth and dust that clings to forgotten places.
Even though I didn’t plan on coming here, it feels like I was meant to find it.
Like something pulled me in when I needed it most. My chest tightens at the thought because this room reminds me of my grandmother.
She would’ve loved it here, the big windows, the smell of dirt, the promise of something growing again.
She used to tell me that everything could be fixed with a little hard work and dirt under your nails. When life felt too big, she’d hand me a trowel and point to the garden. “Start there,” she’d say. “One row at a time.”
So that’s what I do. I roll up my sleeves and start pulling out the dead plants, one by one, dropping them into the bucket beside me.
The soil crumbles between my fingers, dry but familiar.
With every handful I clear, the tightness in my chest loosens.
My thoughts slow down. The fear, the anger, the confusion. It all fades under the rhythm of work.
Before I know it, I’ve cleared the beds closest to the windows. Sunlight catches the dust in the air, and for the first time in days, I breathe.
If only they hadn’t let it fall apart like this. Dried-out hanging pots swing from their hooks. Burnt-out bulbs hang crooked in their sockets. Shelves tilt under their own weight, barely hanging on. Every surface is blanketed in dust, thick enough to leave trails where my fingers brush through it.
This place is going to need a serious deep clean before it looks anything close to what it once was.
I rest my elbows on a narrow table. It groans and tilts, making my heart jump.
I shove it upright again, breathing out a shaky laugh.
The sheer amount of work should feel overwhelming, but it doesn’t.
It’s good to have something to do. Something that isn’t running or hiding or trying to guess what Xander’s thinking.
I spot a notepad tucked under a pile of broken terra cotta pots and pick it up.
The cover is warped from moisture, edges curled.
I flip through the wrinkled pages. They’re filled with lists of plant names written in neat cursive, notes about soil and watering schedules, tiny sketches of leaves and blooms. Whoever kept these records cared about every inch of this place.
I trace a fingertip over the ink, wondering about the woman it belonged to. Maybe someone like my grandmother. Someone who believed a little dirt and patience could fix anything.
An ache builds in my chest at the thought of how much my grandmother loved her little shop. She would’ve gone crazy for this place. I can almost picture her here, sleeves rolled up, humming under her breath while she worked.
Even knowing I didn’t have a choice, the guilt of selling her shop still hits hard. It was the only thing left of her, and I let it go. I told myself it was practical, that she’d understand, but deep down, it feels like I gave up the last piece of her I had.
Maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to this room. It feels like a piece of her found me instead. Like fate dropped me here when I needed her most.
The urge to fix this place hits strong. To clean it up, bring it back to the beauty it once had. Because that’s what she would’ve done. That’s what she would’ve wanted.
She may not have been my family by blood, but she chose me.
She took me in when no one else would and made sure I never felt like I was missing anything.
Standing here now, surrounded by dirt and broken things, I realize I just want to do the same.
Patch up what’s left and make it mean something again.
Pencil in hand, I take stock of the room and start a list of everything I’ll need to bring this place back to life.
Technically, I can’t actually buy anything, but I have a sneaking feeling Marco will be willing to help me.
He seems like the kind of guy who’d smuggle me a bottle of cleaner if I asked nicely.
I glance around the space, tapping the pencil against my palm. Most of the pots are still in one piece. A few tools too, even if they’re more rust than metal now. It’s a start.
I add to the list. Cleaning supplies for the windows and floors. Gloves, rags, maybe some sandpaper. Fertilizer and seeds, if I can somehow get my hands on them, and definitely a new hose.
I set the list aside for later and grab an old bucket and a wool brush and get to work cleaning the small handheld shovel. When I twist the wheel on the hose spout, it sticks. I grunt, twisting harder. It finally gives, but nothing comes out.
There’s a loud gurgle, and suddenly, water bursts out like a fire hydrant, spraying straight into my face.
The shock steals my breath for a second before a laugh bubbles up, breaking loose before I can stop it. I swipe at my eyes with my sleeve, still laughing as I fight the wheel closed again.
The water shuts off with a groan, leaving a puddle on the floor and me standing there like a drowned rat. I really should’ve seen that coming.
I look down at the half-full bucket, suddenly a lot less motivated to keep cleaning. My stomach growls loud enough to echo, and I take it as a sign to call a time-out.
I redo my ponytail, fingers slipping through damp strands, and tug my shirt straight like that’ll somehow fix everything. It doesn’t.
My hands still their fussing, and I force myself to stand tall. So what if I look a mess? Who am I even trying to impress?
A perfectly pressed white shirt under a tailored black jacket comes to mind. My lips twitch at the thought of how pissed Xander would be if I ever smeared dirt on it. He’s always so pristine and composed, not a hair or crease out of place.
He’s meticulous in everything he does. It’s armor built for boardrooms and high-rises, not a room full of cracked pots and dirt. The contrast almost makes me laugh. Him, spotless and collected. Me, more at home with soil on my skin and dirt under my nails.
The small smile fades before I can stop it. I swallow the tightness in my throat, rinse my hands in the bucket, and head for the hall in search of something to eat.