“I was getting to it,” he says, the smile still playing on his lips as he straightens up, though he doesn’t let go of me.
I let out a fake scoff. “Go.” I shove him again, this time managing to get a measly inch of space. “Or we’ll never make it downstairs.”
I see his eyes darken with lust again, before I step out of his arms.
He gives me one last look that promises this is not finished, then finally turns toward the door.
I stand there for three full seconds, trying to remember how to breathe.
By the time I dress and make it downstairs, I look composed.
That is one of my greatest skills.
My hair is down. My makeup is finished. The dress fits exactly the way I want it to, elegant and soft and just dangerous enough to make me feel like myself again. Gold earrings. Gold bracelet. Simple heels. No armor, not exactly, but close enough to pass.
The house is ready.
Mostly.
The dining room glows with warm light, the table set for adults and children together. The kitchen smells incredible. Garlic, herbs, warm bread, roasted vegetables, something rich and tomato-heavy that Bianca would approve of if she were here to inspect it.
The trusted staff moves quietly and efficiently, all of them people who have worked for the family long enough to understand discretion is not a preference. It is a survival skill.
Outside, security is visible only if you know what to look for.
I know what to look for now.
Adrian’s people have done what he does best. They are everywhere and nowhere. One near the front approach. One at the side entrance. Two on the perimeter cameras. Another near the kitchen access. Nick’s security has not arrived yet, but will soon.
I move through the entrance hall just as the front door opens for the flower delivery to be brought inside.
Adrian must have already cleared them because one of his people brings them in. A woman with dark hair pulled back tightly and a calm expression carries the larger arrangement carefully in both hands. A man with a close cut and a stern expression follows with the smaller one.
Yellow roses catch the light immediately.
I stop.
They are beautiful.
Not what I would have chosen for myself, but beautiful nonetheless.
My preference has always been something less obvious. White ranunculus, pale peach garden roses, deep green hellebore, maybe a few stems of blue thistle, and trailing jasmine. Something textured and slightly wild, pretty without trying too hard.
But Sofia and Charlotte love yellow roses.
Lucia’s girls were enamored by the yellow roses growing in the garden at Papà’s house the first time they came over, and I have never forgotten it. Every time they come to my house, I make a point to put them in the arrangement.
So tonight there are yellow roses.
Softened with cream blooms, pale peach, and enough greenery to keep the arrangements from looking too bright or childish. Cheerful, but still elegant. Warm without being loud.
It is a small thing.
But sometimes small things are the only normal things left.
“Dining room table for the larger one,” I tell the woman holding the first arrangement. “Centered, but not too high. I want people to see each other across it.”
She nods. “Yes, ma’am.”
