Rayne
I had the whole thing memorized.
Every single word I planned to say to her.
I even practiced my tone— respectful, measured. Not too soft, not too proud. I wasn’t here to dredge up the past. I wasn’t here to ask questions or start a conversation that would lead nowhere. I was here to do one thing.
Say thank you.
I owed her that.
So here I was in front of her office door with a bouquet of lilies and soft pink tulips, buzzing with the kind of nervous energy I hadn’t felt since I was a kid. I didn’t even know if she’d accept the flowers. I just remembered she hated money being thrown at her—Goddess, that memory still made my gut twist—and I thought maybe something small and human would carry more weight.
The words were ready.
Thank you for saving my life. I’ll never forget it. You didn’t owe me anything, and you still chose to help.
That was it. Nothing else. I even practiced how to hold the bouquet—softly, humbly, like it was a peace offering, not a bribe.
But none of that mattered
