Chapter 11: Stars In The Wrong Sky

Aria

The box sat on my kitchen counter like it belonged there-quiet, elegant, and entirely out of place.

It had arrived at the bakery earlier that day, right when we were slammed with the lunch crowd. A slim delivery man with a sheepish grin and an expensive label in his hand. No note. No signature.

Just a box of Trésor Cacao chocolates, wrapped in ivory silk ribbon. And a bouquet of dahlias. The dark red, almost black, like the last sliver of night before dawn.

I’d stuffed them both behind the counter with barely a glance, told Adrian not to ask questions, and powered through my shift like they didn’t exist. But now, standing in my apartment barefoot with the city glowing outside my window, they were impossible to ignore.

I peeled the ribbon from the box first, almost resentfully, as if it had personally insulted me.

Inside: a perfect grid of truffles….champagne ganache and dark cherry, my favorites. Of course. He remembered.

I hated that he remembered.

The bouquet lay beside it, still untouched, petals slightly curled as if they'd been holding their breath all day too. I reached for it, then stopped, then reached again, tracing the edge of one bloom.

Dahlias.

He knew what they meant to me.

Once, I told him they reminded me of stars that bloomed in the wrong sky—bold, mysterious, always trying to belong somewhere else. I’d whispered that into his chest when we were seventeen, my words muffled by the thick wool of his uniform jersey. And he’d listened.

God, he listened.

I stepped back, arms crossed, heart stammering.

Of course they were from Damien.

Who else would send me flowers this specific? Who else would know about Trésor Cacao and choose these two flavors like he was trying to speak in sugar and silence?

I let out a shaky laugh. “What are you doing, Damien?” I whispered to the empty kitchen.

There was no note. No explanation. No grand apology. Just... gestures. Delicate, maddening gestures.

Why now?

He hadn’t said a word since that gala. No texts. No calls. Not even a friend request. And now suddenly it was this?

My stomach twisted.

Denial.

Maybe it wasn’t him.

Maybe it was Elena or Karissah being sentimental. Or a client thanking me. Maybe it was coincidence,,,some secret admirer with uncomfortably specific taste.

I opened my laptop and Googled him, fingers flying before I could talk myself down.

"Damien Von Adler wife Vivienne Vasquez."

A thousand glossy headlines bloomed across the screen.

Adler-Vasquez Spotted Leaving Benefit Dinner Together in Tribeca.

Vivienne Vasquez Shares Glimpse of Home Life: “Family First.”

No Trouble in Paradise: Sources Say Adler Marriage Still Going Strong.

I slammed the laptop shut.

Anger.

Of course. He was still with her.

So what…this was a game? He could send me flowers and chocolates and stay married, unbothered? Was this his idea of penance? A few pretty things and he gets to sleep soundly again?

I paced the kitchen, fuming.

No. I wasn’t going to be part of his midlife crisis. I wasn’t going to be a side plot in whatever regret-filled soap opera he was scripting in his head.

He left me.

Not just in the past---for the past six years. Without a word. Without looking back.

Bargaining.

But what if... what if something had changed?

What if he and Vivienne were no longer... that?

He’d looked different at the gala. And in the bakery. He hadn’t smiled much. He looked like someone clawing at his own skin to feel something again.

But that didn’t mean anything. Regret wasn’t love. Guilt wasn’t enough.

Still, he didn’t have to send anything. He didn’t have to remember. People don’t just guess your favorite flower and favorite truffle pairing.

It had to mean something.

Didn’t it?

Depression.

I sank onto the couch, knees to my chest, still staring at the bouquet like it might explode.

I used to dream of moments like this, tiny signs from the universe that maybe he still cared, still thought of me. Back then, I would have cried over these flowers. I would’ve clutched them to my chest like some second chance had arrived with cellophane and stems.

Now, all I felt was tired.

Tired of wondering. Tired of hoping. Tired of how my chest still ached at the mere idea of him.

He had his life. He had his world. And it didn’t include me. It never did, not really. I was just a summer he’d outgrown, a detour on the way to his empire.

And still, he could undo me with a bouquet of star-flowers.

Acceptance.

I stood, wiping my face even though I hadn’t cried.

Tomorrow morning, he would come to the bakery. To pick up Theo’s birthday cake.

And when he did, I would tell him, calmly, firmly, that this had to stop. No gifts. No more signals. If he had something to say, he should say it. Otherwise, I didn’t need his ghosts.

I didn’t need his silence wrapped in ribbon.

Six years was a long time to disappear, and no one got to return without consequences. Not even Damien Von Adler.

I turned off the kitchen light, leaving the flowers in the glow of the city.

They were beautiful. They really were.

But even stars burn out.