The dining room table of the penthouse was buried under swatches of silk, vellum invitations, and floral arrangements that cost more than most people earned in a year. William Croft moved around the display with a feverish intensity, his eyes bright and unblinking.
“For the centerpieces, we need white orchids,” William said, discarding a sample of roses. “Thousands of them. It needs to look like a new season. A clean slate. No red. Red is too… heavy.”
Sophie Laurent stood by the window, feeling the walls closing in. “William, it’s just a party. We don’t need to import flowers from Ecuador.”
“It’s not just a party, Sophie,” William snapped, though he quickly softened his tone, reaching for her hand. “It’s a declaration. I want the world to see that the winter is over. I want them to see that I am healed.”
Sophie forced a smile, but inside, she felt like a mannequin in a department store window. William wasn’t planning a wedding; he was constructing a fortress against his grief, and she was the cornerstone. He didn’t see *her*–the woman with a blackmail letter hidden in her drawer–he saw the “cure”. She was a prop in his redemption play, and the weight of the performance was suffocating her.