Chapter 4
Chapter Four
The letter lies on the counter between us, glossy and smug in its Titan-branded folder.
My eyes dart over the black-and-white print, but the words blur, stacking like bricks against my chest. Profitability.
Shared ownership. Acquisition. Every syllable feels like a trap, like Mom’s legacy is already slipping through my fingers.
Luke leans on the counter, arms crossed, watching me like he’s waiting for me to crack. Maybe that’s what he wants. He hasn’t said much since Ms. Eldridge left, but his silence feels louder than anything.
“Don’t look so grim,” he finally says, voice casual, too casual. “Six months isn’t nothing. We can figure it out.”
I snap my head up, the sting of his words sharper than he probably means. We. As if this is his fight. As if he’s been here holding the pieces together while I’ve been juggling customers, bills, and grief. My throat tightens, and before I can stop myself, the words tumble out hot and accusing.
“Of course you’d say that. You probably want Titan to swoop in. Cash out, let someone else deal with the mess.”
Luke straightens, his brows shooting up. “Excuse me?”
Grace had warned me I’d push people away if I kept swinging like this, but the words came out before I could stop them.
The room feels too small, like the walls are inching closer. I press my palms against the counter, grounding myself in its worn edges. “Don’t act surprised. You left once before when things got complicated. Why wouldn’t you be relieved now that there’s an escape hatch?”
His eyes flash, and for a second, I almost see the boy I used to trail after, desperate for a glance, desperate to matter.
But now, the look he gives me is anything but soft.
It’s hard, cutting. “You really think I’m here because I want a corporation to bulldoze your mom’s shop?
That I’d come back just to watch Titan slap its name over Collins Florals? ”
I want to take it back, the accusation, but pride pins the words to my tongue. My pulse hammers as I clutch the letter again, crumpling the edge in my fist. “I don’t know what you want, Luke. I just know I can’t lose this place. Not after losing Mom. Not after everything else.”
My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate it—hate that he hears the fracture I’ve been trying to hide. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his gaze soften, just a fraction, before he looks away.
Grace had looked me in the eye over pasta last week and told me grief wasn’t a business plan. That I couldn’t keep trying to turn the shop into a shrine just to feel close to Mom. I’d laughed it off then, but right now, the truth of it clawed at me.
Luke mutters something under his breath, grabs the screwdriver from the drawer, and tightens the shelf bracket that’s been sagging for weeks.
I don’t say thank you. I don’t say anything.
But my chest gives the smallest ache because that was Mom’s shelf, and I hate that he noticed it needed fixing before I did.
The silence stretches, the letter a silent referee between us, daring one of us to speak first.
Grief swells up like a wave I can’t push back.
The paper blurs, not from the words this time, but from the sting of tears I refuse to let fall.
For weeks I’ve shoved it down—Mom’s absence, the way the shop feels hollow no matter how many blooms I crowd into the displays, the pile of bills I shuffle but never solve.
And now Titan’s letter stares back at me, bold as a judge’s verdict.
Six months. Like there’s a clock hanging over my head, ticking louder with every second.
I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles ache, grounding myself in the old grooves Dad carved into the wood years ago when he used to fix things with his hands instead of buying new.
I tell myself I’m steady, but my chest betrays me, rising and falling too fast, too shallow.
How am I supposed to do this? How am I supposed to keep customers happy, balance the books, order inventory, and somehow smile through it all while I still wake up expecting Mom to be humming in the back room?
I can almost hear her voice, low and warm, drifting over the faint whir of the cooler.
The memory squeezes tighter than grief—it’s longing, sharp and endless.
I don’t have time for it. I don’t have time for her absence.
Every minute I waste missing her is another bill unpaid, another order misfiled.
I shove the ache down deeper, the way I’ve been doing since the funeral, since the sympathy cards stopped coming and the reality set in that no one’s going to swoop in and save me.
The shop is supposed to be proof she mattered, that her life meant something more than empty vases and fading petals.
If I lose it—if Titan takes it—then what do I have left?
The letter crinkles in my fist, and I loosen my grip before I rip it in two.
That would be satisfying for a second, sure, but then what?
Titan doesn’t go away just because I tear up a piece of paper.
They’re too big, too slick, too determined.
I’ve seen their glossy stores downtown—every bouquet wrapped in neat cellophane, every petal polished like it was grown in a lab.
Soulless. Efficient. Nothing like this shop, with its uneven shelves and the smell of damp soil that clings to your clothes after five minutes inside.
This shop breathes with Mom’s touch, even now. And I can’t let them suffocate it.
I glance at Luke. He’s still watching me too closely, his expression unreadable, like he’s dissecting me.
Like he knows I’m breaking under the weight I keep pretending isn’t there.
I hate that. Hate that he might be able to see more than I want him to.
I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, even though inside everything feels like it’s collapsing in.
My chest is hollow, like something’s been scooped out, leaving me trying to balance on air.
He doesn’t get it. He can’t. He wasn’t here every day with Mom.
He wasn’t the one she handed the keys to with that soft but serious look that said I trust you.
She believed I could handle this, and I believed her.
But maybe she was wrong. Maybe I was na?ve to think love and determination were enough to keep a business alive.
My pulse hammers at my temples. The silence in the shop presses in, heavy and merciless. If Luke speaks, I don’t want to hear it. If he stays quiet, I don’t want that either. Either way, the storm in me doesn’t calm.
No matter what he says, no matter how determined he suddenly wants to be, I’m not sure I can carry this weight—not Mom’s absence, not Titan’s deadline, not all of it at once. And the scariest part is, I’m starting to wonder if the fight is already slipping beyond me, like sand through my fingers.
I curl my hand into a fist against the counter. I can’t let it. I won’t let it. But the truth whispers in the back of my mind, cruel and relentless—what if I already have?
Luke leans against the counter, drumming his fingers like he’s holding back a dozen thoughts at once.
Finally, he says, “We need to do more than just keep the doors open. What if we updated the shop? A new display in the window, seasonal specials, maybe even an online ordering system. People expect that now.”
I blink at him. “An online system? For flowers?”
“Why not?” His tone sharpens with energy, like he’s already picturing it.
“Weddings, birthdays, last-minute anniversaries—people would jump at same-day delivery if we advertised it right. And what about workshops? Flower-arranging classes, date-night events. We could make the shop a place people want to come back to, not just somewhere they stop once a year.”
The way he rattles ideas off so easily makes my pulse spike. To him, it’s just business strategy. To me, it feels like he’s rewriting everything Mom built.
“Slow down,” I cut in, shaking my head. “This isn’t a café or a trendy craft store. It’s a flower shop. Mom’s flower shop. People came here because they trusted her, because it felt personal. Not because she threw in coupons or gimmicks.”
Luke pushes away from the counter, arms crossing. “It’s not a gimmick to adapt, Mia. It’s survival. Titan doesn’t care how warm and personal the shop feels. They care about numbers. You want this place to last? We need to give customers a reason to spend money here.”
I bristle, hugging my arms to my chest. “We already have reasons. Quality, loyalty, tradition. People know what Collins Florals stands for. That’s what keeps them coming back.”
“Then why are sales down?” he shoots back, not cruel, just firm. “The loyalty you’re banking on isn’t paying the bills.”
The words sting because I don’t have an easy answer. My jaw tightens, and I glance at the order book sitting open on the counter, pages thin from years of notes in Mom’s handwriting. It feels like proof that stability is possible—that we don’t have to rip apart the shop to save it.
I meet his gaze, steady but defiant. “Maybe your way works for some places. But this one isn’t changing. Not like that.”
Before I can fire back again, the bell over the door jingles. Ms. Eldridge steps inside, her heels clicking against the tile like they own the place already. She doesn’t waste time with pleasantries—just sets another folder on the counter, this one thinner, meaner.
“I won’t take long,” she says, smoothing her blazer sleeve. Her eyes flick between me and Luke, like she’s measuring how long before we crack. “After reviewing your case, Titan has decided on an adjusted timeline.”
My stomach knots. “Adjusted?”
“Quarterly evaluations,” she says, crisp as a blade. “First review in three months. If progress isn’t evident by then, Titan will exercise the buyout clause immediately.”
For a moment, I can’t breathe. Three months? That’s barely enough time to plan a spring promotion, let alone turn a profit. The words buzz in my ears, drowning out the hum of the cooler and the faint sound of traffic outside.
Luke steps forward, but I throw my hand up before he can speak. My throat feels tight, but my voice comes out steady, even if my pulse is anything but. “That wasn’t the deal. We were given six months.”
Ms. Eldridge’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Six months is generous. Quarterly oversight ensures accountability. If your business model is sound, you’ll have nothing to worry about.”
Nothing to worry about. The phrase burns, because it’s everything to worry about. Titan just took the little bit of breathing room we had and snapped it in half.
When she leaves, the bell jingles again, far too cheerful for the storm she dropped in our laps. I stand frozen, staring at the folder she left behind, its edges sharp enough to cut.
Three months. The countdown clock just started ticking twice as fast. And if I can’t find a way to outpace it, Collins Florals won’t just belong to Titan—it’ll be gone.
My throat locks as I stare at Titan’s demand—quarterly reviews. Not six months. Three. The clock just sped up, and I can feel it ticking in my bones.
Luke doesn’t say anything this time. He just watches me with that quiet, unreadable look, as if maybe—just maybe—he believes I can handle this.
Grace’s voice drifted back to me—‘You can’t carry it all yourself, Mia.’ Maybe she was right. But if I let anyone in, would it mean letting go of Mom too?