Roses and Ruin.

While Ava escorted our guests outside. I quickly made my way to the sunroom to make sure everything was perfect. The candles flickered low, casting delicate shadows along the whitewashed brick walls, soft and warm like the memory of her smile. Golden light kissed the table I had obsessed over all night, two places set precisely, silverware aligned so sharply it could’ve passed for weapons. Napkins folded like roses sat beside porcelain-white plates. The chef had just finished plating the dessert, a rich dark chocolate torte with raspberry drizzle, her favorite and left without a word, sensing the gravity in the air. The wine breathed in crystal decanters. Vintage. Handpicked. Just like she used to talk about when she still talked to me. I remembered every detail. The year, the flavor, the way her nose would scrunch when the tannins were too sharp. Everything tonight was perfect. Every little thing was for her. Now all I needed to do was go and ask her to join me, to give me a chance to show her something real. And then the illusion cracked. I turned the corner and froze. Kerry-Anne was already seated. A red dress poured over her like blood, too tight, too loud, and nothing like Ava. She perched at the table like a spider on silk, one leg crossed high, a wine glass dangling from her fingers. She smiled like she knew something I didn’t. Like this was hers.

“This is lovely,” she purred, swirling the wine. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble for me.”

My heart stalled. The air turned sharp in my lungs. “I didn’t,” I said flatly.

She blinked, caught off guard. “But… the table, the candles, the dinner...”

“It’s not for you, Kerry-Anne.” My tone was ice. “Get up.”

I stepped forward, the calm unraveling thread by thread. I needed her out of this room, now. I grabbed her hand, intent on pulling her out of the room before...Too late. The soft creak of the door behind me was deafening. My gut dropped. I turned and there she was. Ava. She stood in the threshold like a ghost, not a sound leaving her lips. Her eyes swept the scene: the table set for two, the flickering candles, the roses, the wine, the woman in red who wasn’t her and my hand...fuck. I could see it, the moment her heart cracked. The moment she stopped hoping. Her mouth parted for a breath that never came. Her arms, once so strong, hung limp at her sides. Her jaw clenched, holding something back. Maybe fury. Maybe pain. Maybe both.

"Don't you know this is a private moment!" Kerry-Anne snapped at her.

“Ava...” I choked the word out like an apology, taking a step forward. She didn’t wait. Didn’t flinch. She turned on her heel with the grace of a woman raised among kings and monsters, her heels clicking like a countdown. Once on the tile. Twice on the wood. 

"Hey, Ava, what's wrong?" I heard Dom say as one door slammed and her footsteps clicked up the stairs. And then—SLAM. The door to her room shut with a finality that made my chest cave in. It wasn’t just a door closing. It was a wall. A sentence. A fucking coffin lid. Silence swelled in the space she’d left behind. I didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. Kerry-Anne, oblivious or willfully ignorant, lifted her wineglass again. “You didn’t mention we were expecting company,” she murmured with a smug little smirk.

I stared at her. Really looked at her. At the way she lounged like this was her world, like she had any claim to me, to my time, to the table I’d built with Ava in mind.

Rage burned hot and bright in my chest. “Get. Out.”

Her brows rose, faux-innocent. “Nico...”

“Now.”

She must’ve heard the edge in my voice because she finally stood, huffed, and strutted out like a wounded animal pretending not to be. Her perfume lingered, cloying and wrong and I was alone again. Alone in the room I’d created to try and win back the woman I’d spent a lifetime pushing away. I stared at the roses, at the full glass of wine meant for her, at the flickering candles that suddenly felt too bright. The chair across from mine was empty.

Domonic’s words came back to haunt me: “You’re trying to protect her by keeping her out, but you’re breaking her from the inside instead.”

I had told myself I was keeping Ava safe. That this world. the guns, the blood, the politics, wasn’t for her. That I could shoulder it all alone, even if it meant she hated me, because I could not allow her to make me soft, to be a weakness in me. But she wasn’t the fragile thing I thought she was. She had walked into that meeting like she owned the damn table. Outplanned every man in that room. Conner had looked at her like she was royalty, because she was. The daughter of a Don, trained like a weapon beneath silk and lace. And what had I done? I tried to dim her light so she wouldn’t burn too hot near mine. And now…Now I was the one choking on smoke. She didn’t even yell. That’s what wrecked me most. She just looked. Turned. Walked. Like I wasn’t even worth the scream. I sank into the chair she should’ve occupied and dropped my head into my hands. This was supposed to be a beginning. Instead, I’d made it the end. Frustrated I swipped my hand across the table, shattering everything. I picked up the chair and threw it against the wall. I flipped the table and I still didn't feel better as I stormed into the kitchen, picking up a bottle of whiskey and taking a swig before I started shattering everything in site, the plates, the bowls, the oven, the walls, the very kitchen that she loved so much, that spent so much time in trying to cook for me and the rage I felt at myself was real, it was raw, and the only thing I knew to do was the break, to destroy, to shatter everything in sight. "FUCK!" I yelled as I fell to the floor amoungst the glass and debris.