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"I couldn't even call my mom." I clutched my hair, sobbing. "Because I know what she'd say. She'd tell me I'm not good enough for a man like that. And maybe she's right. Maybe I'm just a novelty. Once he gets bored, he'll kick me to the curb like my mom got kicked..."

"Shut up, Ruby Caldwell!"

The shout cracked through the air.

Isabella slammed her napkin on the table and lunged forward, grabbing my face in both hands, forcing me to look at her.

Her grip was fierce, fingers digging into my skin. Her gray-green eyes blazed. "Stop it with that self-loathing garbage! Where exactly are you not good enough for him?"

I stared at her, tears clinging to my lashes.

"You graduated NYU with straight A's! You're a designer whose work makes people remember you the second they see it! You have talent, ambition, and a heart that burns hotter and cleaner than anyone I know!" Isabella bit out each word, glaring. "So what if he's rich and powerful? So what if he has a daughter? If he's a real man with any spine, he should be cleaning up his past to meet you halfway—not making you sit here doubting yourself!"

"But... the situation's too complicated..."

"Complicated is his problem to solve, not your excuse to run!" Isabella grabbed her wine glass and downed it, slamming it back on the wood. "Listen to me, Ruby. In this rotten world, meeting someone who makes your heart race, someone you'd go crazy for—those odds are worse than the lottery. If he was a total fraud, he would've blocked you before you left Paris. But he didn't. He's waiting for you to come find him, isn't he?"

My fingers brushed the leather bracelet on my wrist.

"If you crawl back to your crappy Hoboken apartment right now because you're scared and ashamed, you'll regret it for the rest of your life. You'll end up like your mother—blaming men and fate for everything, living in bitterness." Isabella gripped my shoulders, voice raw and honest. "Be brave for once, Ruby. Look him in the eye. Ask him straight. Get a real answer that's yours. If he's worth it, fight for it with everything you've got. If he's not, I'll personally throw his ass in the East River. Don't live with regret."

The record player crooned scratchy jazz in the background.

The scent of black truffle and red wine slowly melted the frozen block in my chest.

Her gray-green eyes gleamed in the dim light, just like another pair that had watched me in the Parisian night.

"Don't let yourself regret it..." I whispered, wiping the tears from my face.

We talked until after midnight. When we stepped outside, the rain had stopped. The cold air hit my lungs sharp and clear.

Isabella hugged me hard at the cab. "Go get him, Ruby baby. Show him what you're made of."

❦ ❦ ❦

The next morning, the flower shop in Midtown had just opened.

The bell chimed. The air smelled like wet soil and fresh stems.

I stood in front of the cooler, scanning past pale hydrangeas and lilies, until my eyes landed on a bucket of deep red Ecuadorian roses in the corner.

Petals thick as velvet. Dark crimson almost black in the morning light. Long woody stems.

"I'll take twelve of those," I said, pointing.

"Sure thing, miss." The clerk trimmed the thorns and wrapped them tight in rough kraft paper and gray cotton ribbon. "For a lover?"

"For a dangerous man." I handed over the cash.

Outside, the storefront window reflected my image.

I'd ditched the oversized hoodies. Wore a wine-red fitted shirtdress I'd drafted myself, cinched at the waist, camel wool coat over it. Black suede ankle boots clicked sharp and sure on the dry pavement.

Eight-forty a.m. IS·MA Group headquarters.

The lobby was packed with white-collar workers queuing for security.

I clutched the heavy bouquet of deep red roses, ducked past familiar faces from the second-tier brand division holding Starbucks cups, pulled my hat low, and turned into the private corridor at the back—dark gray marble, quiet as a crypt.