Chapter 10: Dahlia

Damien

"Only dahlias," I said into the phone, balancing it between my shoulder and cheek while flipping through a file. “Dark red. The kind that looks almost black in certain light. No fillers, no roses, no distractions. Just them.”

The florist on the other end hesitated. “Would you like to include a card, Mr. von Adler?”

I stared out the floor-to-ceiling window of my office. The skyline was pale today, dipped in soft grey, like the city itself was holding its breath.

“No card,” I said quietly. “Just the flowers.”

When we were seventeen, Aria told me she loved dahlias because they looked like stars that bloomed in the wrong sky. "They’re romantic in a quiet way," she’d said, twirling one in her fingers during some field trip I barely remember except her. "Like they’re trying to be noticed, but not too much. I like flowers that don’t beg."

And of course she’d like something like that. Something beautiful, subtle, unyielding.

After hanging up, I opened a browser tab and typed in the number from memory—Trésor Cacao, her favorite chocolate place. She used to sneak out of dorms to buy their truffles, swearing Madame Eloïse made them with some kind of magic.

A woman answered in her soft French-laced tone. “Bonjour, Trésor Cacao.”

“It’s Damien von Adler. I’d like to send an order house truffles, please. Champagne ganache and dark cherry.”

“For Mademoiselle Aria?” she asked, knowingly.

I smiled faintly. “Yes.”

“Would you like to include a note?”

“No,” I cut in gently. “Just... just the chocolate.”

When the call ended, I leaned back in my chair and let the stillness rush in.

No grand gestures. No declarations.

Just quiet things. Thoughtful things. The kind that bloom in the wrong sky.

A knock sounded once before the door creaked open.

Jake.

He didn’t wait for permission, never did. He strolled in like he owned the place, two coffees in hand and his usual lazy grin already forming.

“Tell me that brooding look is about a hostile takeover,” he said, tossing one coffee onto my desk. “Or at least a massive scandal.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I murmured, accepting the cup.

“So not a scandal. Has to be a woman then.” Jake sank into the leather seat across from mine, sprawling like he had nowhere else to be.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.

Jake gave a mock gasp. “Damien von Adler is... emotionally compromised?”

“Momentarily,” I said dryly.

He grinned. “Let me guess. Dark dahlias and imported chocolate?”

I looked up, amused. “You’re annoyingly perceptive.”

“Please. I’ve seen you do the bare minimum in most situations, but the moment Aria walks back into the picture, suddenly you’re ordering hand-picked symbolism.”

I laughed, despite myself. “She liked dahlias,” I said simply. “Thought they looked like stars in disguise.”

Jake tilted his head, genuinely surprised. “That’s... poetic. Almost uncomfortably so.”

“Aria made everything feel like poetry.”

He went quiet for a beat, then said, “You’ve still got it bad.”

I didn’t bother denying it.

“So what now?” he asked. “Vivienne’s off playing palace ghost , living it up in the Islands, canceling galas. People are already whispering.”

“They can whisper,” I said.

“She hasn’t lived in this marriage in over a year. What are you going to do about Aria?”

I hesitated.

The answer should’ve been simple. Go to her. Beg, maybe. Fight for her. But I knew better now. I couldn’t bulldoze my way back into her life with apologies and long speeches. She wasn’t a woman who fell for proclamations. She fell for small things. Earnest things.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Just... a lot of groveling, probably.”

Jake snorted. “You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

I raised my coffee to him in a toast. “Cheers to that.”

He clinked his cup against mine. “And here I thought I was the emotionally complicated one today.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What does that mean?”

Jake exhaled and leaned back. “There’s this guy.”

I blinked. “Okay.”

“He’s …... Smart. Grounded. And annoyingly good at challenging me without making me feel like an idiot.”

“Sounds like someone you should be chasing.”

Jake gave a tight smile. “Yeah, well. Duty’s a bitch.”

I understood too well.

He went on, voice low. “There are expectations. Family image. My father keeps sending me profiles of women he thinks I should ‘consider.’ My mother still pretends I’ll grow out of it.”

“You won’t.”

“Exactly,” Jake said. “But chasing someone... when it means disappointing everyone who built you... that’s a mess I haven’t had the guts to walk into.”

I studied him, really looked. For once, he wasn’t being sarcastic or showy. Just tired. Human.

“Then don’t walk into it for them,” I said. “Walk into it for you.”

He blinked. “You sound like someone who’s been watching too many indie films.”

I shrugged. “I’m sending a bouquet of star-flowers to a woman who probably doesn’t want to see me again. I’m allowed one emotional support metaphor.”

Jake grinned, then sobered again. “You think she’ll forgive you?”

“I think she shouldn’t,” I said quietly. “But I hope she does.”

He nodded, finishing the last of his coffee. “Well. If anyone can make a woman forgive six years of silence, betrayal, and emotional constipation, it’s you.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Don’t mention it.” He stood, brushing imaginary lint from his suit. “Just... don’t mess it up. If you do, I’ll have to swoop in with my own dahlia story, and frankly, mine involves a terrible date and an allergic reaction.”

I smiled as he left, but when the door clicked shut, the quiet returned—full and almost tender.

Somewhere across the city, flowers were being wrapped and chocolates boxed.

No card. No demands.

Just a whisper.

Just a beginning.