CHAPTER 90: FLOWERS

Ella hadn’t stopped thinking about that night.

The moment Nicholas kissed her in the café. The silence in the car. The hurt in his voice when he’d said, "You froze."

She hadn’t been able to shake the image of him—cold, closed-off, retreating into himself like he used to before her.

But the next morning, he was gone before she woke up. Left a note on her nightstand.

Had to take care of something. I’ll see you soon. -N.

She tried not to overthink it. He was giving her space, right? Or maybe he was still upset. Maybe last night had pulled him back into places he hadn’t been ready to go again. He had secrets, wounds she still didn’t know how to reach.

And yet... he’d kissed her.

Possessively.

Desperately.

As if she was the only thing keeping him from burning down the world.

So she carried that with her as she stepped into the coffee shop that morning, tying her apron and forcing herself into routine. It was quiet today—midweek lull, soft jazz playing from the speakers, the air smelling like cinnamon and caramel.

She’d almost found a rhythm again by late afternoon, taking an order with a practiced smile, when the shop door chimed behind her.

"Hey," Dani, one of her coworkers, whispered with wide eyes, nudging her from behind the espresso machine. "Are you expecting a delivery?"

Ella blinked. "No—why?"

"Because you have one. And it’s... Wow."

Ella turned—and her breath caught.

A man in a black suit stood just inside the café, holding the largest bouquet of red and white peonies she’d ever seen. They looked like something out of a bridal shoot, wrapped in pale pink silk ribbon, soft petals blooming in layers like whispers.

He glanced around. "Ella?"

"That’s me," she said slowly, stepping forward.

"Delivery for you," the man said, handing over the bouquet carefully like it was made of glass. Then he turned and left, just like that.

No card. No note.

Just flowers.

She stared down at them, stunned. The scent was light and delicate, a contrast to the way her heart suddenly thudded in her chest.

There was only one person who could’ve sent them.

Nicholas.

And when she turned the bouquet slightly, she saw it.

A thin envelope tucked inside, sealed with a wax stamp bearing a simple "C."

Her fingers trembled as she opened it.

Dinner. 8pm. Wear something soft and sinful. The driver will be waiting.

– N

Ella felt her knees wobble.

Soft and sinful?

God help her.

She pressed the card to her chest for a second, trying to steady her pulse, while Dani leaned in again with a grin. "So... who’s the mysterious lover?"

Ella bit back a smile. "Someone who knows how to make my day."

She finished her shift distracted, glancing at the clock every five minutes. The second she clocked out,the driver had been waiting outside the café just like the card had promised. She climbed into the sleek, black car with the bouquet still cradled in her arms, heart thudding in her chest like something alive.

Once she got home, she rushed to the shower once she got out of the shower, Ella’s fingers brushed over the petals as she stood barefoot in her bedroom, towel wrapped tightly around her body, hair still damp and curling slightly at the ends.

Her skin tingled—not just from the heat of the shower but from the weight of the evening ahead.

Soft and sinful.

She let the words roll through her again.

She hadn’t gotten dressed up in a long time.

Not since the gala.

Not since before the chaos with Clara. Before Adrian walked back into her life like a match ready to burn everything she’d rebuilt.

And especially not for herself.

Getting ready had once been a ritual for her—like armor. Lipstick, heels, a certain perfume. All pieces of who she was before things fell apart.

But somewhere along the way, she’d stopped seeing herself as someone worth dressing up for.

Until now.

Ella exhaled slowly, dropping the towel and moving to the wardrobe across the room. Nicholas had filled it the last time he’d whisked her away for shopping—an absurd assortment of designer dresses in silks and satins, every hanger still smelling faintly of luxury and him.

She hadn’t touched most of them.

Not until tonight.

She ran her fingers across the fabric like she was flipping through memories. A red satin slip she remembered him tugging down her shoulder with his teeth. A black velvet number so soft she was in love with it. But her fingers stopped at a muted emerald-green gown tucked near the back.

It was elegant. Soft. Dangerous.

Sinful.

Nicholas had said the color made her look like temptation. She hadn’t dared wear it.

Until now.

She pulled it from the hanger gently, holding it against her body. The silk kissed her skin. The fabric caught the light, casting shadows in just the right places. Dipping low across her back. Barely clinging at the sides.

Ella laid it across the bed, moving to the mirror with the slow, shaky reverence of someone reacquainting herself with her reflection.

She hadn’t worn makeup in days.

Not like this.

She reached for her concealer, smoothing it beneath her eyes, patting it in with careful fingers. A light foundation followed, her skin still flushed from the shower. She added the faintest touch of bronzer, something warm and golden.

Mascara next.

She blinked once. Twice.

Her lashes looked longer. Her eyes softer.

She hadn’t looked at herself like this in so long—like she was allowed to be beautiful. Like she was allowed to feel beautiful, not just look put-together enough to hide her exhaustion.

She lined her lips in a soft nude, then changed her mind and reached for a deeper red. Bolder. Riskier.

Tonight wasn’t about blending in.

It was about remembering who she was.

She pulled her hair into soft waves with the curling wand Nicholas had bought her months ago, her fingers trembling slightly as she pinned one side back with a gold clip. The more she styled, the more she remembered the rhythm of it. The ritual. The pleasure in it.

She wasn’t hiding.

She was choosing.

And when she finally slipped into the dress—zipping it slowly, smoothing the fabric over her hips—she saw it.

The woman in the mirror?

Wasn’t a girl reeling from old ghosts or clinging to the past.

She was someone you didn’t walk away from.

Ella’s chest tightened as she stared at her reflection—her cheekbones catching the light, the green of the dress bringing out every fleck of color in her eyes.

Is this what he sees when he looks at me?

She didn’t know how long she stood there, breath caught somewhere between awe and disbelief.

But then the buzzer rang.

The driver.

She slipped on her heels and grabbed the matching clutch Nicholas had added to the wardrobe weeks ago, barely able to remember when she’d last felt this grounded and weightless at the same time.

By the time she stepped out of the building, the car door was already being opened for her.

The same sleek black car.

The same driver who greeted her with a quiet "Miss Ella."

The ride was smooth, quiet, the hum of the city moving past in slow rhythm. She pressed her hand to her lap, willing her heartbeat to calm.

She wasn’t nervous.

She was... expectant.

The car finally pulled up to a private rooftop restaurant—the kind of place whispered about in circles where reservations didn’t exist unless you were born into legacy or built empires with your bare hands.

She stepped out slowly, clutching the edge of her shawl around her shoulders as the evening breeze kissed her skin.

And then she saw him.

Nicholas.

Standing at the entrance like he’d walked out of a dream.

He was in black again—tailored to perfection, his coat brushing his thighs, the collar turned up just enough to look careless. His jaw was clean-shaven tonight, his hair slightly tousled like he’d run his hands through it while waiting.

But it was his eyes that held her.

Not because they were cold.

Not tonight.

Tonight they were stunned.

The moment he saw her, something in him shifted.

Nicholas Carter—composed, unreadable, untouchable—stumbled in his breath.

His eyes drank her in with a reverence she’d never seen on another man. Like he wasn’t sure she was real. Like something in him had just cracked open, and he didn’t know how to put it back together.

Ella paused at the bottom of the steps, letting him have the full view.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then—

"You’re..." he breathed, his voice low, reverent, almost broken. "God, Ella."

She smiled, warmth unfurling in her chest.

He stepped forward like the world had narrowed to just this—just her—and reached out, fingertips brushing her wrist, then trailing up to her shoulder, tracing the edge of the gown.

"You’re going to kill me in that dress," he whispered.

She lifted her chin slightly, teasing. "You told me to wear something sinful."

Nicholas chuckled—low and dark, his hand curving gently around her waist.

"I didn’t know you’d redefine the word."