Backstage at the A-Side studio, the air was thick with the scent of a garden.
Victoria sat at her dressing table, staring at the reflection of a woman she was just beginning to recognize. The door opened, and two production assistants struggled to maneuver a floral arrangement of obscene proportions into the small room.
It wasn’t a standard bouquet. It was an architectural marvel of rare white orchids, lilies, and night-blooming jasmine. It took up nearly half the room.
“Delivery for Luna,” the assistant gasped, setting it down.
Victoria stood, bewildered. She reached for the heavy card stock tucked into the greenery.
*To the woman with the voice of an angel. The world doesn’t deserve you, but I intend to give you the world anyway. — Dominic.*
The door swung open again. This time, it was William. He was disheveled, his shirt stained with a speck of Seraphina’s makeup, breathing hard from running down the corridor. He had left Seraphina sedated and raced here, desperate to bridge the chasm between them.
He stopped dead.
He looked at Victoria, radiant in her stage makeup. He looked at the massive, towering display of white flowers that dwarfed her. And then he saw the card in her hand.
He snatched it from her fingers before she could protest. He read the name. *Dominic.*
A primal, ugly sound tore from William’s throat. The jealousy didn’t just burn; it incinerated his reason.
“He thinks he can buy you with flowers?” William snarled, crumbling the card in his fist. “Does he know you’re carrying my child? Does he know you belong to me?”
Victoria looked at the crumpled card, then at William’s contorted face. “I don’t belong to anyone, William. And judging by the smell of hospital antiseptic on you… you’ve already made your choice on who belongs to you.”