14. Elena
— ? —
Elena
I wake up to roses.
Not a single bouquet, that would be too simple for Adrian Vale on Valentine’s Day. No, my apartment has been transformed into something from a fever dream, every surface covered in flowers I don’t remember letting anyone deliver.
Red roses climb makeshift trellises against my bedroom wall, their petals catching the morning light.
Pink roses fill mason jars on every windowsill.
White roses cascade from the top of my bookshelf like a fragrant waterfall, and when I stumble into the kitchen, I find yellow roses arranged in coffee mugs, wine glasses, even the colander I use for pasta.
“What the hell,” I say to no one.
A card sits on the kitchen counter, propped against a vase of deep crimson blooms.
Meet me where it started. 8 p.m. Dress warm. The rooftop will be cold. A
I call Sophie before I’ve even made coffee.
“You knew about this.”
“Knew about what?” Her voice is innocent. Too innocent.
“My apartment looks like a botanical garden exploded. There are roses in my colander, Sophie. My colander.”
“Oh, that.” She doesn’t even try to hide her amusement. “I may have given him a spare key. For flower delivery purposes only.”
“You gave my husband a key to my apartment?”
“Your estranged-but-reconciling husband. There’s a difference.” I hear her take a sip of something, probably her morning green smoothie that tastes like lawn clippings. “He asked my advice, you know. About the gesture. I told him to go big or go home.”
“This isn’t big. This is aggressive.”
“He said, and I quote…‘I’ve been understating things for too long. It’s time to overstate.’” Sophie pauses. “I think he might be right.”
I look around my apartment, at the hundreds of roses transforming my cramped space into something almost magical.
“He’s definitely something.”
“There’s a dress in your closet, by the way. Green cashmere. I picked it out.”
“Sophie…”
“You’re welcome. Now go shower and stop complaining about being romanced. Some of us are single on Valentine’s Day and don’t need the reminder.”
She hangs up before I can respond.
***
I spend the day at the studio.
The Miller commission is nearly finished, seven of the eight chairs are complete, the table is assembled and waiting for its final coat of finish, and the sideboard is coming along beautifully.
The luna moth drawer pulls arrived last week, silver against cherry wood, and every time I look at them I feel a small surge of pride.
I made this. With my own hands, in my own space, on my own terms.
Adrian’s investment made the space possible, but the work is mine. That distinction matters more than I can explain.
By 7 p.m., I’m showered and dressed in the green cashmere Sophie chose.
It’s simple, long sleeves, modest neckline, falls just below my knees, but when I look in the mirror, I understand why she picked it.
The color makes my skin glow. The cut makes me look like someone who belongs in rooftop bars, drinking champagne with billionaires.
Or at least, with one particular billionaire.
***
The rooftop bar looks different in winter.
The first time I was here was summer, Sophie’s celebratory drinks after my first major sale, the night Adrian walked across the room to tell me something he didn’t know yet.
Now the space is enclosed in glass panels, heated by strategically placed warmers, and lit by what must be a thousand candles.
He’s standing by our corner booth.
The same booth where we sat four years ago, talking until 3 a.m. about furniture and bees and the way cities look from rooftops at night. He’s wearing a dark suit, no tie, and his hands are shoved in his pockets in a way that suggests he’s been waiting, and worrying, for a while.
“Hi,” I say.
He turns. His face does something complicated when he sees me, relief and hope and fear all tangled together.
“Hi.” He pulls his hands from his pockets. “You came.”
“You invaded my apartment with flowers. The least I could do was show up.”
“Sophie’s idea. The invasion part.”
“I figured.” I walk toward him, toward the booth, toward whatever this night is going to become. “Though the colander was a nice touch.”
“That was my idea.” He almost smiles. “I wanted to make sure you noticed.”
“I noticed.”
***
We sit in the corner booth, and he orders champagne without asking, the same champagne we drank that first night, I realize. The same corner. The same view of the city lights.
“This is a lot,” I say, gesturing at the candles, the enclosed rooftop, the obvious effort that went into transforming this space. “Even for you.”
“I wanted it to be right.” He pours champagne, hands me a glass. “This is where everything started. I thought maybe… maybe it could be where we start again.”
“Presumptuous.”
“Hopeful.” He sets down the bottle. “There’s a difference.”
I take a sip of champagne. It’s cold and crisp, exactly how I remember it.
“What did you want to tell me that night? The first night, I mean. You said you didn’t know yet, but you thought you needed to find out.” I tilt my head. “Did you ever figure it out?”
Adrian is quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is softer than I’ve heard it.
“That I’d been looking for you my whole life. I just didn’t know it until I saw you across the room.”
“That’s very romantic.”
“It’s very true.” He meets my eyes. “I walked into this bar expecting nothing. Another networking event, another evening of small talk and empty connections. And then I saw you, laughing with Sophie, wearing that blue dress, completely unaware that you were the most interesting person in the room, and something just… clicked.”
“Clicked.”
“Like a lock finding its key. Like I’d been looking for something without knowing what it was, and suddenly there it was. There you were.”
I don’t know what to say. So I drink more champagne and let the silence stretch between us.
“I know I ruined it,” he says finally. “I know I took something precious and let it wither through neglect. But I’m asking you, I’m begging you, to let me try again. Not to get back what we had. To build something better.”
“On my terms.”
“Always.”
“I’m not moving back to the manor. I’m keeping my apartment. My studio. My independence.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to give any of that up.”
“And I’m still going to call you on your bullshit. When you retreat into work, when you prioritize deals over people, when you let your mother…”
“I know.” He reaches across the table, not quite touching my hand. “I want you to. I need someone who’ll tell me when I’m being an idiot. God knows I’ve given you plenty of practice.”
I look at him across the table, this man I married, this man I left, this man who’s spent three months trying to prove he can be different.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?”
“We try. Together. One step at a time.”
His face transforms. Hope, real, uncomplicated hope, blooms across his features like sunrise.
“Thank you,” he breathes. “Elena, thank you. I won’t…”
“Don’t promise me anything.” I hold up a hand. “Just… show me. Every day. That’s all I’m asking.”
“I will. I swear I will.”
***
He walks me home through streets that sparkle with February frost.
We don’t talk much, but the silence is comfortable, the kind of quiet that happens between people who’ve said what needed saying and are content to just exist together for a while.
At my building, he stops.
“I should let you get some sleep.”
“It’s only eleven.”
“You’ve had a long day.”
I look at him standing there in the cold, breath fogging in the air, clearly wanting to come up but too afraid to presume.
“Do you want to come in?”
His whole body stills. “Elena…”
“Unless you don’t want to.”
“I want to.” His voice is rough. “I’ve wanted to for three months.”
“Then come in.”
I turn and walk through the door without waiting to see if he follows.
After a moment, I hear his footsteps behind me.