The Flowers

Emma Hart did not sleep well.

Not because she was thinking about Nicholas Vance sleeping in his car outside her building—although she was definitely thinking about that, and definitely not because she cared. She didn’t care. She absolutely did not care that the Vice Chairman of Vance Corporation, a man worth approximately three point eight billion dollars, had spent the night in the back seat of his own Mercedes like a reckless teenager after a fight.

She didn’t care at all.

Which was why she had checked the security camera feed on her phone four times between midnight and 5:45 AM.

At 6:05 AM, she looked out her bedroom window. The Mercedes was gone. A bouquet of flowers—the same ones he had tried to give her last night—was placed neatly against her front door.

Emma opened the door, picked up the flowers, and found a handwritten note tucked inside the wrapping.

You once told me your favorite flower was peonies. I remembered. —N.V.

She stared at the note for a long moment.

She had told him that exactly once. Three years ago. They had been walking past a flower shop on their way to a client dinner, and she had made an offhand comment about how peonies reminded her of her grandmother’s garden. He had been on his phone at the time, barely paying attention.

He had been paying attention.

Emma exhaled slowly, carried the flowers inside, and placed them in a vase on her kitchen counter. Then she got ready for work, telling herself the vase placement meant nothing.

At 8:25 AM, Nick walked into the office looking like he hadn’t slept at all—because he hadn’t. His suit was immaculate, his hair perfectly styled, and his jaw set in its usual controlled line. But Emma noticed the faint shadows under his eyes. She also noticed the paper bag in his hand—from her favorite bakery across town, the one she rarely had time to visit.

"Good morning, Emma," he said, placing the bag on her desk. "Croissant. Chocolate almond. Your favorite."

Emma glanced at the bag. Then at him. "Mr. Vance, you cannot buy my loyalty with pastries."

"I'm not trying to buy your loyalty. I'm trying to buy your breakfast. There’s a difference."

"There really isn’t."

"Eat the croissant, Emma."

She didn’t. Not immediately. She pushed it aside and handed him his daily briefing—printed, laminated, and color-coded. Even now, she refused to do anything halfway.

Nick took it and walked into his office.

Twenty minutes later, Chloe Song dropped into the chair beside Emma’s desk.

"Okay, I need details," Chloe said. "Why is the Vice Chairman suddenly acting like he’s in a romantic drama? He just asked me what your favorite lunch is. He has never asked me a personal question in the entire time I’ve worked here."

Emma didn’t look up. "He’s not being romantic. He’s being strategic. There’s a difference."

"Same energy. Different name."

"Chloe."

"Emma. He just watched you organize files for almost a full minute. Without blinking."

Emma paused. Slowly, she turned toward the glass wall of his office.

Nick was seated at his desk, pretending to read. The moment their eyes met, he immediately looked down.

Too fast.

Too obvious.

Chloe smirked. "Yeah. That’s not normal behavior."

"There’s nothing happening," Emma said firmly. "He just doesn’t know how to function without structure. Once he adjusts—"

"I am not replacing you," Chloe cut in quickly. "I value my sanity. And my future relationships."

Emma’s fingers stilled.

"What does that mean?"

Chloe hesitated. "It means… people talk. You know they do."

Emma said nothing.

"It’s just—eight years, Emma. When was your last real vacation? Not a work trip. Not a ‘bring your laptop’ situation. A real one."

Emma didn’t answer.

"When was your last date?" Chloe added quietly.

Still nothing.

Chloe sighed. "Exactly. Your life has revolved around him for almost a decade. That’s not healthy."

Emma swallowed.

"You deserve something that belongs to you," Chloe said gently. "Not something that depends on his schedule."

Emma stared at her screen, but the words blurred.

At 12:45 PM, her phone buzzed.

Olivia: Lunch? I’m close to your office. Emergency wedding decisions. Also gossip. Come now.

Emma checked her schedule. Nick was tied up for the next couple of hours.

She replied: Give me 10 minutes.

The café was warm, crowded, and loud. Olivia was already there, glowing, her engagement ring catching the light every time she moved.

"Emma!" Olivia waved. "Sit. You look exhausted."

"That’s reassuring," Emma said, sliding into the seat.

"I’m serious. What happened?"

Emma took a breath. "I resigned."

Olivia froze.

Then—

"You WHAT?!"

Several people turned.

Emma winced. "Keep your voice down."

But Olivia was already tearing up—happy tears.

"You actually did it," she said, grabbing Emma’s hands. "You’re finally leaving. You’re finally choosing yourself."

Emma smiled faintly.

"You’re going to have time," Olivia continued. "To live. To date. To breathe. You won’t be tied to his schedule anymore."

Emma looked down at their joined hands.

"Speaking of dating," Olivia added, suddenly excited, "I have someone for you. Liam. He’s a designer. Smart, funny, very good-looking."

"Olivia—"

"One date. That’s all I’m asking. One. If it’s terrible, I’ll never bring it up again."

Emma hesitated.

She thought about the flowers. The croissant. The way Nick had said I need you.

Dangerous thoughts.

Very dangerous.

"Fine," she said finally. "One date."

Olivia gasped like she had just won something major.

Back at Vance Tower, 3:15 PM.

Emma was reviewing reports when her phone buzzed again. Details for Friday night. Location. Time. Outfit suggestion.

She quickly locked her screen.

But she didn’t notice Nick standing in his office doorway, watching her.

He had seen her smile.

Not the polite one she gave clients. Not the professional one she used in meetings.

A real one.

And it wasn’t for him.

He caught a glimpse of the name before she locked the phone.

Liam.

Something unfamiliar tightened in his chest.

Sharp. Cold.

Possessive.

Jealousy.

Nicholas Vance did not get jealous.

But as he watched Emma return to work, calm and composed, as if she hadn’t just agreed to go out with another man—

He felt something shift.

He had fifteen days left.

Fifteen days to understand why the idea of Emma Hart choosing someone else made everything feel… wrong.

He walked back into his office and shut the door.

Then he picked up his phone.

Nick: Who is Liam?

Daniel: No clue. Should I be concerned?

Nick: Find out.

Daniel: …You’re serious?

Nick: Very.

Daniel: Wow. You’re in trouble.

Nick stared at the message.

For the first time, he didn’t disagree.