Chapter 42
The tulips were on my desk again when I walked in.
White ones, fresh, the petals still slightly dewy. A new card leaned against the vase, but I didn't read it. I didn't need to. I already knew what it would say. Something about listening. Something about not giving up. Something that made my chest ache even when I tried to ignore it.
I shoved the vase to the corner, the same corner where all the other bouquets had been pushed, and I sat down and opened my laptop. I didn't have time for this. I had reports to finish, meetings to attend, a project that was slowly consuming my life.
The break room was empty when I walked in, which was a small mercy. I had barely slept, my head was pounding. I just wanted coffee. I just wanted five minutes of silence before the day swallowed me whole.
I was pouring my coffee when the door opened behind me.
"Elera!"
I didn't need to turn around. I knew that voice. Bright, syrupy, dripping with false sweetness. Anne.
I kept my back to her and focused on my coffee.
"I've been meaning to talk to you..." she said, sliding up beside me like nothing had ever happened between us.
Like she hadn't destroyed my trust. Like she hadn't smiled at me the days after I caught her with Oliver and asked if I wanted to go shopping.
"The flowers on your desk. White tulips, right? They're gorgeous."
I said nothing.
"Every day, a new bouquet." She tilted her head, her smile sharpening. "You must have found a very dedicated florist. Or maybe... a very dedicated imagination?"
I turned to look at her. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Anne shrugged, all innocence. "Nothing. It's just... we all know there's no secret admirer, Elera. You don't have to keep up the soap opera drama. It's a little embarrassing, honestly."
The words hit me like a slap.
I was transported back to another conversation, another accusation.
Oliver, standing in the pantry, his voice sharp and bitter.
Who is he? How could you move on so fast?
After all those years? Did you even love me?
As if I was the one who had done something wrong.
As if I was the villain in a story they had written.
I set my coffee down and faced her fully. "You think I'm sending flowers to myself?"
Anne laughed, a light, tinkling sound that didn't reach her eyes.
"I'm just saying, it's a little convenient. A mysterious admirer appears right after you move to a new apartment? Flowers every day? No one even knows where you live."
She patted my arm. "It's okay. We've all done desperate things after a breakup. Just... don't overdo it."
She walked out before I could respond, her heels clicking on the floor, her perfume lingering in the air like poison.
I stood there, my hands shaking, my coffee growing cold. The same pattern, over and over. They hurt me, and somehow I ended up being the one who looked crazy. The one who was mocked. The one who had to defend herself against accusations that made no sense.
I had done nothing wrong. I had trusted the wrong people. I had loved the wrong people. And now Anne was standing in the break room, smiling at me like I was pathetic, like I was the one who should be ashamed.
The anger followed me through the rest of the day.
It wasn't fair. That was the thought that kept circling, over and over, like a loop I couldn't break. Oliver had cheated on me. Anne had betrayed me. They were the ones who had done something wrong. So why was I the one being blamed? Why was I the villain in their story?
By the time I walked out of the building, the sun had long since set. I was exhausted. My head ached. My eyes burned. And he was there, waiting, like he had been every night.
But tonight was different.
He didn't stay by his car. He walked toward me, a paper bag in his hand, and I could see that he had dressed carefully, not in a suit, but something nicer than before. His hair was neat. His jaw was clean-shaven. He looked like he was trying.
"Elera..." he said, falling into step beside me. "I baked something. A cake. We never got to celebrate the Arclight project." He held out the bag. "Tomorrow's the weekend. You can sleep in."
I kept walking. I didn't look at him.
"Elera, please. Just take it."
I stopped.
He stopped too. His face was hopeful. His eyes were bright. He looked like a man who believed that a cake could fix everything.
"Life has nothing sweet in it anymore." I said. My voice came out flat. Cold. "I don't bake. I don't eat sweets. I don't do any of that."
His face fell. The hope drained out of his eyes, replaced by something raw and painful. He stared at me like I had hit him.
"You don't bake?" he repeated.
"No."
"Elera, baking was your-"
"Was." I cut him off. "Past tense. You took that from me. You took everything." I looked at the bag in his hands, at the cake I would never eat, and I felt something twist in my chest. "Now leave me alone."
I turned and walked away. I didn't look back. I didn't know if he followed. I didn't care.
The walk home was a blur.
I unlocked my door, stepped inside, and leaned against the cold wood. The apartment was dark. The silence was crushing. I stood there for a long time, my hand still on the lock, and I tried to feel satisfied.
I had hurt him. I had made him feel small. I had taken his cake and thrown his words back in his face.
So why did I feel like the villain?
I thought about his face when I said I didn't bake anymore. The way his expression had crumbled. The way he had stood there, frozen, like he was seeing the damage for the first time.
It wasn't that I hated baking, it's just that everybtime I tried baking, I was reminded of him. His annoyingly handsome face stealing kisses. It was better to let go that being reminded of the happy memories which pricked.
It wasn't his fault.
The thought hit me like a wave. It wasn't his fault that Anne had mocked me.
It wasn't his fault that Oliver had blamed me.
He had lied, yes. He had used me, yes. But I hadn't snapped at him because of that.
I had snapped at him because I was angry at Anne and Oliver, and he had been standing there, an easy target.
I pressed my forehead against the door and closed my eyes.
I remembered his face when he held out the bag. Hopeful. Vulnerable. He had baked a cake for me, and I had thrown it in his face.
I was turning into them. Into Oliver, who blamed everyone but himself. Into Anne, who smiled while she hurt people. I was taking my anger out on someone who was trying, who was showing up every day, who was leaving breakfast and flowers and waiting outside my office until I was safe.
I felt evil. I felt cruel. I had looked at his hopeful face and I had crushed him, not because he deserved it, not entirely but because I was hurting and I wanted someone else to hurt too.
I didn't have to forgive him. I didn't have to take him back. But I didn't have to be cruel.
I pushed off the door and walked to the couch. I sat down in the dark, my arms wrapped around myself, and I thought about his face. The hope. The hurt. The way he had said my name like it was the only word that mattered.
Maybe I should listen. Just once. Just to hear what he had to say. And then I would tell him to leave, and he would never show his face again, and I would be free of him.
But the thought of never seeing his face again brought a sharp ache to my chest.
I lay down on the couch and stared at the ceiling. Sleep didn't come easily. It crept in slowly, in fragments, pulling me under between waves of guilt and anger and something else I didn't want to name.
I must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing I knew, my phone was ringing and the morning light was filtering through the curtains.
I grabbed it, groggy, and saw that it was the security desk.
"Ms. Carter? You need to come downstairs."
I frowned. "Why? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. It's just... there's a delivery for you. A very large delivery."
I pulled on a robe and rode the elevator down, still half-asleep, still trying to figure out what could possibly be so urgent.
The doors opened.
I stopped breathing.
The entire lobby was filled with flowers. Tulips. White ones, pink ones, yellow ones. They were everywhere. On the floor, on the counters, wrapped in bouquets and arranged in vases and scattered like confetti across the marble. The air was thick with their perfume, sweet and soft and overwhelming.
I stood there, frozen, my mouth open, my heart pounding.
A man in a delivery uniform approached me with a clipboard. "Elera Carter?"
I nodded, unable to speak.
He handed me a card. Cream-colored paper, the same handwriting I had come to recognize.
I stared at the card. Then at the flowers. Then at the card again.
The delivery man was saying something about signatures and deliveries, but I couldn't hear him. The only thing I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears and the echo of his words.