hapter 190
what the warm towel and gently pressed it to Inigo’s forehead. He flinched
slightly, still sore from the stab wound, but his smile never faded.
“I told you I’m fine,” he murmured.
“And I told you you’re not the doctor,” I replied with a small smirk, brushing his hair away from his face.
He chuckled, his fingers catching mine as I reached for the bowl of warm water. “You’ve been hovering over me like this for days, you know.“}
“Then be grateful I didn’t hire a nurse who gives less sass.”
His eyes sparkled. “But no nurse would kiss me goodnight.”
1 I leaned down, brushing my lips against his. “Exactly.”
It was quiet moments like this–peaceful, soft, healing–that reminded me of the life I almost never had. We’d turned one of the spare rooms into a cozy recovery den. Flower arrangements from the shop lined the windows, and handwritten notes from our customers sat on the bedside table. It was beautiful.
Except for the constant interruption of one unwanted reminder.
Flowers. Always white roses. They arrived every day, no sender’s name, but I knew the handwriting.
Jackson.<
Inever touched them. I never even opened the notes. I tossed them in the trash, every single time. They were not peace. They were guilt wrapped in petals.
Still, they kept coming.”
But even those could not touch the joy I felt as Inigo’s strength returned. When the doctors finally approved his discharge, I surprised him with dinner under the stars in the flower shop’s back garden. A string of lights glimmered above us, weaving through the trees, and candles flickered along the table I’d set myself.
“You really did all this?” he said, stunned.”
“I thought you deserved something special,” I said, smoothing down my dress. “We both do.”
He stepped forward slowly, still sore but managing to wrap his arms around me. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened
to me.”
“And I almost didn’t believe that at first,” I whispered, looking up at him. “But now I do.”
“Are we really doing this?” he asked, pulling out a simple ring box. “Getting married. For real this time?”
“No contracts. No lies,” I replied, nodding. “Just us.”
We sat down, eating slowly, laughing about the ridiculous cake design ideas we’d seen online. And then I said it–out loud, without hesitation.
“I don’t want anyone ruining this for us. Not Jackson. Not anyone.”
Inigo nodded, serious now. “Then we protect it. Together.“”
We started planning everything. I had picked a modest garden venue in the countryside, not far from our flower shop. We agreed on simple, elegant, and small–surrounded only by the people who truly loved us.
But happiness, it seemed, always summoned storms.
It started with footsteps. Heavy, slow, familiar.”
And then–his voice.
“Please. Just talk to me.”
I turned. Jackson was standing just outside the shop’s fence. Rain had begun to pour, soaking him from head to toe. He looked almost unrecognizable–exhausted, worn down, haunted. His eyes were sunken, hair dripping into his eyes, suit stained from the rain.
He stepped forward. “Please, Samantha… I just need one minute.”
Inigo tensed beside me. “She doesn’t owe you anything.“”
But I raised a hand. “Let him speak.”
Jackson dropped to his knees. In the mud. On the gravel. In front of the shop where I had rebuilt myself.!!
“I lost everything,” he said, voice trembling. “But nothing–not my company, not my reputation–hurts more than losing you.”
I didn’t say a word.
“I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. I know I should be in hell for everything I did. But please…” He crawled forward slightly. soaking wet, broken. “Just tell me how to make it right. Please, I’ll do anything.”
I felt tears sting at the edge of my eyes. But not for him. For the version of me who would’ve once believed this.
11:03 AM
“You’re too late,” I said, softly but firmly.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to ”
3
0
“You didn’t mean to believe lies? You didn’t mean to let me bleed alone? You didn’t mean to lock me up and treat me like garbage while protecting your mistress?”
Jackson opened his mouth, but no words came. His hands shook.
“Don’t cry now,” I whispered. “You made your choice.”
And then I turned to Inigo.”
I walked over and kissed him, right in front of Jackson. A long, slow kiss. Not to hurt him, but to show him–show the world: that I’d survived.
That I had won.
When I pulled back, I looked Jackson straight in the eye.
“This is what love looks like.”
He choked a sob and stumbled backward, still kneeling, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something else. But I’d heard enough.
Inigo stepped forward, shielding me. “Leave. Now.”
Jackson didn’t fight.
He turned, still weeping, and limped back into the storm.
I stood there, feeling nothing but the steady beat of my own heart.”
“I think that was the closure I needed,” I murmured.
Inigo pulled me into his arms. “Let’s go home.”
