Chapter 43
I stood in the lobby, surrounded by enough tulips to start my own flower shop, and I had no idea what to do next.
The delivery guy had left. The security guard had gone back to his desk.
The neighbors who had gathered to stare had slowly dispersed, their envious glances lingering on me like perfume I couldn't wash off.
I could feel their eyes even now, through the glass doors of the building, wondering who I was and who he was and how someone like me had ended up with someone like him.
I didn't know the answer to any of those questions.
I stared at the flowers. There were so many of them. Vases and baskets and loose bouquets wrapped in brown paper. White tulips, pink tulips, yellow tulips, purple tulips. They covered the floor, the counter, the chairs. The air was thick with their scent, sweet and soft and overwhelming.
I cursed Caspian under my breath. Not because I was angry, not really, but because he had done this. He had filled an entire lobby with flowers, and now I had to figure out how to get them upstairs.
"Need some help moving them?"
I knew that voice. Low, steady, with just a hint of amusement underneath. I turned.
He was standing by the entrance, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, looking annoyingly charming in a dark sweater and casual trousers.
His hair was messy, like he had run his hands through it one too many times.
His lips were curved in a small smile, the kind that used to make my stomach flip.
I opened my mouth to say no. I didn't need his help. I didn't want his help. I had agreed to listen to him, not to let him back into my apartment.
But I looked at the flowers. So many flowers. Too many flowers. And I was tired, and my arms were weak, and I had already decided to hear him out.
I nodded and turned toward the elevator.
Behind me, I heard him push off the wall. I didn't look back, but I knew he was grinning. I could feel it.
---
The first trip was chaos.
I bent down to pick up a large vase of white tulips, and before my fingers even touched the glass, his hand swept in and took it from me.
I frowned, reached for a basket of yellow ones.
He took that too. I tried to grab a simple wrapped bouquet, and he plucked it out of my grasp like I was a child reaching for something sharp.
I straightened up and stared at him. "What are you doing?"
"You're not carrying anything."
"I can carry flowers, Caspian."
"I know." He shifted the load in his arms, already buried in petals and stems. "But you're not going to."
I huffed and turned toward the elevator, empty handed, my cheeks burning. He followed, and I refused to look at him. I could feel his grin without seeing it.
The elevator ride was silent. I stared at the doors. He stared at me. I could feel his eyes on the side of my face, warm and fond, and I wanted to be annoyed but my heart was doing something complicated in my chest.
---
We made more than five trips. Several trips up and down the elevator, filling my apartment with flowers until there was barely room to walk.
Tulips on the kitchen counter, on the coffee table, on the windowsills, on the shelves.
Pink ones, white ones, yellow ones, even a few deep purple.
The whole apartment smelled like spring, like hope, like something I had been missing for weeks.
After the last trip, Caspian disappeared back into the elevator. I stood in my living room, surrounded by petals, and felt a sudden pang of worry. Was he leaving just like that? No explanation, no confession, no apology?
But then the elevator dinged again, and he walked back in.
Carrying a basket. The same wicker basket from the first morning. The white cloth napkin. The smell of eggs and toast and fresh coffee.
He set it on the small kitchen table and stepped back, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on me.
I took a deep breath. This was it. The conversation I had been avoiding. The explanation I had said I didn't want but had thought about every night.
"Speak," I said. "Whatever you have to say, I'll give you one chance. Just one."
He didn't speak. He pulled the cloth off the basket and started unpacking the food. Plates. Forks. A small jar of jam. The coffee, already poured into a thermos.
I frowned. "Caspian. I said speak."
He set a plate in front of the empty chair. "Eat first."
"I'm not hungry."
"You haven't been eating. I can see it." His voice was soft but firm. "You've lost weight. You're tired. The bags under your eyes are getting darker." He pulled out the chair. "Sit. Eat. Then I'll talk."
I stared at him. He stared back. Unmoving. Unapologetic.
I huffed and turned toward the bathroom. "Fine. But I'm not doing this because you told me to."
I heard him exhale, something between a laugh and a sigh, as I closed the door.
---
When I came back, fresh faced and braced for whatever he was going to say, he was already sitting across from my empty chair. The food was arranged on the plates. The coffee was poured. He looked up at me, and his expression was so soft, so fond, that I almost forgot why I was angry.
Almost.
I sat down, picked up my fork, and started eating without looking at him.
He didn't eat. He just watched. His chin rested on his hand, his elbow on the table, and he stared at me like I was the only thing in the room worth looking at.
The silence stretched. I chewed. Swallowed. Took a sip of coffee. His eyes followed every movement.
"Can you stop staring?" I snapped finally.
"No."
I blinked. I had expected him to look away, to mutter an apology, to retreat into the brooding silence I was used to. But he just sat there, watching, with that steady, unreadable expression.
I opened my mouth to retort, then closed it. What was I supposed to say to no? He had never been this direct. This shameless.
I sighed and focused on my plate.
The food was good. It was always good. He was a good cook, annoyingly so. But as I ate, I realized something. I hadn't been tasting my food for weeks. I had been shoveling it in because I needed energy to work, not because I wanted to enjoy it. I had forgotten what it felt like to savor a meal.
For a moment, I was transported back. To the small apartment with the trinket curtains. To the too small kitchen where he used to cook while I sat at the table and pretended not to stare at his arms. To the mornings when I woke up to the smell of coffee and the weight of his arm across my waist.
And then to the morning I woke up alone. The note on the counter. The money I didn't want. The silence that had swallowed everything.
The bitterness crept back into my chest. I finished my food in silence. He didn't push. He didn't speak. He just watched me, his elbows on the table, his hands folded under his chin, patient and still.
I set my fork down and looked at him.
"Talk."
He took a breath. And then he began.
"My name is Caspian Valerius. I'm the head of the Valerius family. You might have heard of us. I'm a mafia boss."
I stared at him. Of all the things I had expected him to say, that wasn't it.
I had figured he was rich. I had figured he was dangerous.
But mafia? That was something else entirely.
I must have looked exactly like a deer caught in headlights, because his expression flickered with something almost like guilt before he continued.
"The chain you took, the one you swept into your bag that morning. It's been in my family for three generations. It's a symbol of authority, something every head of the family has worn. When I woke up and it was gone, I thought I had lost it. I thought someone had taken it.
I didn't know it was an accident."
He paused, his jaw tightening.
"When I found you, when I realized you had it, I told myself I would get it back and leave. That was the plan. Get the chain. Disappear. But then you gave me your mother's necklace in the alley, and you looked at me like I was something pitiful, and you invited me to your home.
I should have said no."
He looked down at his hands. "But I didn't."
"You let me believe you were poor," I said quietly. "You let me believe you needed me."
"Yes." He didn't deny it. "I told myself it was strategic. That it was easier to stay close to you, to search your apartment, to find the chain. But that was a lie. I stayed because I wanted to. Because for the first time in years, someone looked at me and didn't see a monster."
I opened my mouth, but he wasn't finished.
"I lied to you every day. I let you believe something that wasn't true. And I told myself it was because I was protecting you, because if you knew who I really was, you would run. And you deserved to run. You deserved someone safe, someone who wouldn't put you in danger just by being near you."
My chest ached.
"I left because I was scared." His voice dropped.
"I left because my parents were murdered when I was ten years old. An assassination. Someone wanted to send a message to my father, and they used my mother to do it. I was in the car. I saw everything."
He swallowed. "I have spent my whole life telling myself that love is a weakness, that the people I care about become targets. And when you said you loved me, when I heard your voice on that voicemail, I panicked. I blocked your number. I told myself you were safer without me."
I felt the tears burning behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.
"I was a fool," he said. "A coward. My sister told me as much. And then I dreamed about my father, and he told me something I should have known all along."
He looked at me, and his eyes were bright.
"He told me that I don't get to decide what's safe for you. That all I can do is protect you. Fight for you. Be strong enough to keep you safe."
He reached across the table, his fingers hovering over mine but not touching.
"I'm not asking you to forgive me. Not yet. I know I don't deserve it. But I am asking you to let me try. Let me show you that I can be the man you thought I was. Let me earn your trust back. Let me spend the rest of my life making this right."
I stared at him. At his hopeful eyes. At his trembling hands. At the man who had cooked me breakfast and filled my apartment with tulips and followed me home every night just to make sure I was safe.
I didn't know what to say.
My mouth opened.
No words came out. My mind was completely blank.