3. Elisa
ELISA
The stifling, wet heat of the Brooklyn greenhouse clings to my neck. Damp peat moss and blooming jasmine thicken the air, a heavy perfume that usually settles my pulse. Today, it fails.
The mechanical hum of the industrial ventilation fans cannot drown out the harsh accusation that has been rattling in my skull for three straight days.
How long did the million dollars last, Elisa?
What does he mean by that? It doesn’t really matter anymore.
The sharp carbon-steel blades of my bypass shears snap shut, narrowly missing the stem.
The metal bites through the thick canvas of my protective glove. A searing sting flares instantly. I rip the glove off. A single bead of dark crimson wells up against my deep espresso skin.
My right thumb instinctively slides over the cut, dragging aggressively against the rough callus on the side of my index finger. The harsh friction distracts from the erratic misfiring of my pulse.
"You're going to lose a digit if you keep spacing out on the Phalaenopsis."
Hector steps into the narrow aisle between the metal staging racks, his heavy boots crunching against the gravel floor.
He is wearing a faded black t-shirt that stretches over his broad shoulders and a scowl that deepens the harsh lines around his mouth.
My older brother. My business manager. The only man on this planet who never abandoned me.
He drops a thick stack of printed financial ledgers onto the aluminum potting table, the sound violently sharp in the humid space.
"The Swanson accounting department just initiated a line-by-line audit of our phase-one invoice.
Again. They flagged the base framework costs for the wisteria canopy.
He is trying to bleed our operational budget dry before we even load the delivery trucks. "
I wipe the drop of blood onto a microfiber cloth. "Let them audit. Every receipt is digitized and meticulously logged. The contract explicitly covers load-bearing infrastructure at market rate plus twenty percent. He cannot legally break the agreement without paying the cancellation penalty."
"Maybe we should have let him terminate it on Monday." Hector leans against the metal table, his thick arms crossing over his chest. "Take the penalty fee and walk. The man is ruthless, El. He operates on the assumption that Swanson money can crush anyone who steps into his tax bracket."
"He thinks he dictates the rules." I take a deep breath.
"He thinks I am the same naive twenty-four-year-old girl he left pining for him.
I am not backing down, Hector. If I walk, Catherine Swanson controls the narrative.
She tells her elite circle that we lacked the pedigree to execute their vision.
We lose the generational cachet this gala provides.
I built this firm from nothing, and I will not let him dismantle it. "
The heavy plastic double doors at the front of the greenhouse push open.
Louisa struts down the center gravel path, balancing a cardboard tray with three massive iced coffees. Her bright yellow sundress is a stark contrast to the oppressive green humidity of the room.
"Caffeine. Stat." Louisa shoves a sweating plastic cup into my free hand.
She turns to Hector, thrusting the second cup directly into the center of his chest. "And you need to stop pacing.
You're stressing the ferns. I swear to God, the Maidenhairs are wilting just absorbing your toxic masculine aura. "
Hector glares at the cup, then slowly shifts his glare to her. "I'm protecting my sister's business, Louisa. This isn't a game."
"It's an iced Americano, Hector. Drink it and unclench." She winks at him, unaffected by his towering scowl.
Hector’s jaw tightens, a muscle ticking beneath his beard. "He is using his accounting department as a firing squad. The guy is a manipulative prick."
"Language." Louisa snaps her brightly manicured fingers inches from his nose.
"Derick comes home from pre-k in two hours for lunch.
If that four-year-old repeats the word 'prick' to his teacher because his uncle lacks a basic vocabulary filter, I will personally prune your favorite bonsai tree into a stump. "
Hector mutters a string of creative profanities under his breath and takes a long, aggressive drag of his coffee.
My phone vibrates against the aluminum table. The screen illuminates with a high-priority email notification.
Sender: D. Swanson. Subject: Mockup Rejection.
I tap the screen. A single, ruthless sentence glares back at me in stark black text.
The preliminary floral schematics are inadequate. Meeting required. My office. 8:00 PM tonight.
Hector leans over my shoulder, reading the screen. The air around him instantly turns hostile. "Why the fuck eight PM? In a penthouse office? He’s playing games."
"Language, Hector!" Louisa groans, throwing her hands in the air.
"It's not a meeting." I look at the screen. "It's an ambush."
I pick up my phone, my fingers flying across the digital keyboard with sharp, precise strikes.
"Setting a meeting after business hours forces me into his personal time.
It shifts the dynamic from a professional vendor interaction to an intimate summons.
It's a power play designed to throw me off balance. "
Reply: Mr. Swanson. 8:00 PM is outside of Fleming Botanicals' operational hours. I will arrive at your office at 2:00 PM today to review the schematics. - E. Fleming.
Translation: You want to drag me into your penthouse after dark? You don't get the privilege of my personal time. We play this on my schedule.
I hit send. Thirty seconds later, the screen flashes.
D. Swanson: 2:00 PM. Do not be late.
Perfect.
The Swanson Enterprises penthouse office sits ninety floors above the Manhattan pavement, a monolith of glass, steel, and insurmountable wealth.
I move out of the private executive elevator.
The air up here is heavily filtered, chilled against the crisp March wind rattling the windows, and smelling of sharp espresso and industrial floor wax.
I wear a tailored, charcoal jumpsuit. My thick 4C hair is pulled into a tight, polished updo. No loose strands. No vulnerabilities.
Donovan sits behind a massive slab of raw obsidian that serves as his desk.
His bespoke charcoal suit stretches tight across the breadth of his shoulders. He isn't reviewing files. He is waiting for me. His striking green eyes track my every step from the second the elevator doors part, the faint, jagged silver scar along his jawline pulled tight with tension.
A heavy crystal tumbler rests near his left hand. Amber liquid coats the bottom. Whiskey. At two in the afternoon. A glaring crack in his usually flawless discipline.
He does not offer me a seat.
I walk across the expansive Persian rug, the click-clack of my heels breaking the silence, halting just short of his desk. I clasp my hands tightly together behind my back, actively preventing my thumb from seeking the rough callus on my index finger. I refuse to give him a single visual tell.
"You rejected the preliminary schematics." I keep my spine rigid. "Specify the deficiencies."
Donovan picks up the thick, printed dossier of my designs.
He doesn't even glance at the pages. His eyes remain locked on mine.
"The color palette is chaotic. The base footprint of the centerpieces obstructs the sightlines across the VIP tables.
It lacks the cohesion the Swanson name requires. It's derivative. Amateur."
The insult is deliberate. A blatant provocation.
"The color palette relies on an ombre gradient of deep burgundies and creams, specifically requested by your mother's gala committee in subsection four of our initial brief.
" I keep my chin perfectly level, staring down the bridge of my nose at him.
"The centerpieces utilize a high-clearance acrylic base.
The floral arrangement begins thirty-two inches above the tabletop.
It is physically impossible for it to obstruct a seated guest's sightline. Try again, Donovan. Find a real flaw."
His jaw flexes, the muscle ticking beneath the scar.
He stands, unfolding his massive frame from the leather chair. He rounds the obsidian desk, his movements slow and deliberate.
He stops inches away. "The flaw is that you are standing in my building, dictating terms to me."
"I am doing my job." I hold my ground, planting my heels firmly into the carpet as he approaches. "A job you cannot stop me from completing."
The heat radiating from his large frame bleeds through the silk of my jumpsuit. He smells of sharp winter air and the faint, bitter trace of the whiskey in his glass.
The professional hostility snaps. The argument dissolves into a sudden, suffocating awareness of our bodies.
He towers over me, forcing me to tilt my head back. The green of his eyes darkens to the color of a bruised forest, the pupils expanding rapidly, swallowing the irises. His gaze drops to my mouth, tracking the slight, involuntary parting of my lips.
The heavy silence stretches. The visceral recollection of his large, warm hands sliding down my waist five years ago ignites a searing ache straight down the center of my spine. The betrayal and the lust crash into each other.
"I can stop you, Elisa." He leans in, his tone dropping the formal veneer. "I could tie up your operating licenses in litigation until you bleed out in legal fees. I could ensure Catherine's committee blacklists you from every venue south of Central Park."
I step directly into his space, the silk of my jumpsuit brushing the fine wool of his lapel. "Do it. Bury me in paperwork. Bankrupt me. It won't change the fact that I am the only person in this city who refuses to bow down to you."
His breathing hitches, a harsh, jagged sound. His large hand twitches, lifting toward my hip before he forcibly grounds it.
A sharp, shrill ring cuts through heavy silence.
The noise echoes violently off the glass walls. My phone, sitting face-up on the corner of his obsidian desk where I placed my bag.
The bright digital screen lights up the dark surface.
Caller ID: Daycare - URGENT.