The billionaire's secret vow

The soft hum of traffic filtered through the frosted windows of Aria Monroe's tiny floral shop in Brooklyn, mingling with the faint scent of fresh lavender and crushed eucalyptus. Outside, New York City moved with its usual rhythm—people rushing somewhere, horns blaring, a steady pulse that never faltered. But inside Fleur & Ivy, time had a way of softening. Everything was quiet, fragrant, alive.

Aria tucked a sprig of baby’s breath into a bridal bouquet, phone wedged between her shoulder and ear.

“Zara, no, I swear if you wear that dress, you’ll outshine the bride. Again.”

Laughter burst through the line, warm and crackling.

“Isn’t that the point? I'm Kidding. Mostly. Aria, you’re the only person I know who makes a Monday morning feel so good.”

Aria smiled faintly, smoothing a petal with her thumb. “It’s chaos here. Mrs. Leary’s anniversary bouquet order got delivered to a funeral parlor. I’m one call away from a Yelp meltdown.”

“You live for the drama,” Zara teased. “Anyway, I wanted to remind you about my show next Friday. You're coming, right? No bouquets. Just you, wine, and one very underdressed runway.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Before Zara could respond, the front bell chimed.

“Hey, I’ll call you back, okay?” Aria said quickly. “Love you.”

She tucked the phone into her apron and turned. Nora, her ever-flustered receptionist and part-time bouquet-wrangler, stood in the doorway, eyes wide.

“It’s your doctor,” she said quietly. “He is asking to speak with you. He says something to do with your grandmother.”

Aria froze. Her breath caught like a thorn in her chest. Only one person that doctor would ever call about.

She crossed the shop floor, hands trembling slightly as she took the receiver.

“Hello doc.”

Dr. Levin’s voice was gentle, too gentle.

“Aria, your grandmother’s condition has taken a turn. She asked to see you. I don't think she will survive this night.”

The line blurred into static as Aria stood still, the world slipping sideways. Then she nodded, even though no one could see her.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Mount Sinai Hospital always smelled like too much bleach and too little hope. Aria hated it.

She walked briskly down the corridor, her boots echoing against the sterile floors, her heart racing. When she pushed open the door to Room 608, the air shifted. Thinner. More fragile.

Her grandmother lay propped against snow-white pillows, a tangle of IV lines at her wrist and a thin oxygen tube at her nose. But her eyes which were always wise, fierce, defiant—were now barely keeping itself open.

“There you are,” she whispered, voice scratchy but warm. “My beautiful girl.”

Aria rushed to her bedside, pressing a kiss to her papery cheek. “Don’t scare me like this again, okay?”

Her grandmother smiled weakly. “I never do anything halfway. You should know that by now.”

Aria sat. She took her grandmother’s cool hand into hers and tried not to notice how thin it had become.

“My time is coming but there's something I need to tell you,” her grandmother said. “Something you need to do.”

Aria blinked, confused. “Okay. Anything.”

A pause. A flicker of sorrow passed through the older woman’s eyes.

“You know the Monroe legacy is more than flowers and storefronts,” she began. “Your grandfather’s business dealings, the properties, the trust—they were all structured around very specific conditions. Conditions that protected the family. That secured our future.”

Aria’s stomach turned. “What kind of conditions?”

Her grandmother squeezed her hand. “A marriage. One arranged years ago. Silent. Binding. Forgotten. Until now.”

Aria leaned back in the chair, stunned. “Marriage? What marriage, Nana?”

“To a man whose name you don’t need to know yet. But he’s agreed. The match was written into the family trust. If you marry him before your twenty-fifth birthday—which is in three weeks—the estate is secured. The business lives on. And more importantly, so do you.”

Silence.

The machines beeped softly, marking the seconds that collapsed around her like falling petals.

“Why now? Why are you telling me this?” Aria asked, voice breaking. “You taught me to follow my heart, not hand it away.”

Her grandmother looked at her then with such aching tenderness, it cut deeper than the words.

“Because I’m dying, Aria. And I need to know you’ll be safe. That the shop, our name, everything your mother and I fought for—won’t disappear. You won’t survive without the money from the trust. I know about the hospital bills. The debt. I’m so sorry this is happening.”

Tears burned at the edges of Aria’s vision. She’d fought to keep those struggles private. She had worked three jobs to pay for the bills. She had hoped.

And now hope had a new face.

An anonymous groom.

Aria stood, pacing toward the window. The city outside blinked and moved and carried on, oblivious.

“What kind of man agrees to marry a stranger?” she whispered.

Her grandmother didn’t answer.

Because she didn’t need to.

That night, Aria sat in silence on the hospital couch, watching her grandmother sleep. Knowing that very soon, the doctors would remove the life support from her. And she will be gone. Her grandmother, the one who raised her, would be dead. Soon.

The air was heavy with antiseptic and memories. Her mother’s laughter. The garden they planted when Aria was five. The stories of love and sacrifice and legacy.

Duty wasn’t something Aria had ever asked for. But here it was. Wrapped in history, threaded through bloodlines.

She thought about the shop. About Zara. About everything she stood to lose.

She thought about being alone.

And then she thought of the woman lying in that bed—the only person who had ever loved her without condition.

Slowly, she stood. Walked to the bed. Took her grandmother’s hand.

Her voice was barely a whisper.

“Yes, I will. For you. I will marry him.”

She didn’t ask for a name.

She didn’t want to hear the conditions.

She just said yes.

Now everything changes.