Chapter 3 Chapter Three: The Flowers

I wake to a scent that doesn’t belong to me.

For a second, I’m nowhere—just warmth, blackout curtains, the hum of a city that hasn’t touched me yet. Then the perfume hits. Sweet, clean, so strong I taste it in the back of my throat. I sit up, heart pounding, blanket twisted around my waist.

There, on the little marble table by the door, is a vase crowded with white gardenias. Heavy, lush, impossibly perfect. A note? No. Not even a card.

I stare at them as if they might move. I didn’t order flowers. I barely slept, twisted in sheets, dreams slick with the afterimage of a suit and a voice I don’t want to remember. Even now, fragments rise—his eyes, the faintest smile, the way his presence stayed under my skin long after I left the lounge.

I slide out of bed, every movement careful. The carpet is soft, the hotel air already too dry. I move toward the table, as if the flowers might vanish if I look away. My fingers brush a petal—waxy, almost artificial, but the scent is achingly real. Part of me wants to throw them out, but I don’t. I just stand there, breathing in something that feels like a warning.

It takes me longer than it should to check the hall, but I do. Nothing out there but the muted churn of cleaning carts, distant voices. The housekeeper smiles when I ask—“Yes, miss, they were delivered this morning.” She doesn’t know who sent them. Of course she doesn’t.

I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse.

I text Priya:

Did you send me flowers? Weird, right?

No answer. She’s probably at the breakfast roundtable, charming sponsors with her pre-caffeine optimism. I scroll social media for a minute, half-hoping she’ll have posted something inane about “making connections!” or “hotel breakfasts should be illegal,” but there’s nothing.

My phone buzzes again. Missed call from Alex—my boyfriend. Two texts:

Missed you last night. Call me when you’re up? Hope you didn’t get sucked into conference hell.

Alex. Dependable, kind, a little too certain I’ll always come home. We’ve been together for two years—long enough for love to feel safe, if not always thrilling. I think about telling him. About the man from last night, about the flowers, about the way I couldn’t sleep because my mind kept replaying one conversation. I don’t. I can already hear the edge in his voice, half-joking, half-accusing: “You sure he’s not just flirting with everyone?”

I start to type, delete, start again. I can’t bring myself to mention the flowers. It sounds stupid, and I hate how much that bothers me. I just write,

Still half-asleep. Talk soon.

I shower until the water runs cold, scrubbing my skin harder than necessary. Every time I close my eyes, I see him. The way he said my name. The promise in his eyes, the kind that makes you forget to breathe until you’re lightheaded with want or fear or both.

I dress with more care than usual—a white blouse, navy skirt, heels that say I belong here. I avoid looking at the mirror too long. My eyes are bruised from not enough sleep and something else. I try to smile at my reflection. It doesn’t quite reach my mouth.

When I step into the hall, my stomach is tight. The elevator is packed with strangers, all name badges and forced politeness. I keep telling myself that the world is safe and the day is ordinary, but I catch myself glancing over my shoulder every time someone new enters the car.

The conference floor is a blur of voices, coffee, and light too bright for comfort. The badge around my neck is suddenly heavy. My phone vibrates in my palm, another work group chat—reminders about the schedule, a joke about last night’s open bar, a selfie from Priya with some tech vendor who looks terrified to be included.

The normalcy is a comfort, but it feels brittle, like if I press too hard it’ll crack and spill all my fears across the carpet.

Priya waves me over, relief in her eyes. “There you are. You look like you saw a ghost.”

I almost laugh. “I got flowers.”

She blinks, then grins. “From your secret admirer?”

“There was no card.”

“Creepy or romantic?”

I shrug, not sure. “A little of both.”

She nudges me. “I told you that man had sponsor energy. Maybe you should go thank him.”

My skin prickles. “I don’t know who it was. It could have been a mistake.”

But I know it wasn’t.

We move through the motions: a panel on branding, breakout groups where everyone pretends to care, more business cards exchanged than anyone will ever use. I smile, I network, I laugh when I should. But every time I check my phone, there’s a twist in my gut—a part of me waiting for a message that never comes, and terrified that it will.

Lunch is a crush of bodies, chatter, the thud of trays. Priya is telling a story about her worst client when I feel it again—a pressure at the back of my neck, cold and sure, as if someone is tracing invisible lines up my spine. I turn, slow, heart drumming.

He’s there. Black suit, eyes cutting through the space between us. Not moving. Just watching. The crowd flows around him like he’s part of the building, not a guest.

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t nod. His attention is absolute. It lands on me and stays. My chest tightens. My hand tightens on my coffee cup until the lid creaks.

I try to look away. I fail. He doesn’t blink. His gaze is heavy as a hand at my throat—too close, too intimate, claiming without touching.

Priya’s voice floats in from the side. “You okay?”

I nod. I lie. “Fine.”

But I can’t look away. Not until he does.

He doesn’t.

Instead, a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. It’s not friendly. It’s not reassuring. It’s the look of a man who already knows the answer to a question you haven’t asked yet.

I turn away first, face hot, skin prickling. I feel him watching me long after I lose him in the crowd.

For the rest of the day, I check every shadow, every reflection, half-certain I’ll see him. My mind keeps circling back—flowers, perfume, the weight of a stare I can’t shake.

That night, in my hotel room, I shove the vase of gardenias into the bathroom and shut the door. Still, their scent seeps under the threshold, sweet and suffocating, lingering even after I climb into bed and pretend I’m alone.

I don’t sleep.

✧ ✧ ✧

The conference ends the next afternoon. By the time I’m stuffing my blazer into my suitcase, every nerve is stretched tight, humming with exhaustion. The last panels blur together—more coffee, more applause, more faces I’ll never remember. Even Priya is subdued, her jokes forced.

We swap numbers with people we’ll never call, hug goodbye at the taxi stand. Priya teases, “Call me if you get any more flowers,” but her eyes linger on me a little too long, as if she’s reading something I can’t say aloud.

As soon as I’m alone in the back of the rideshare, I feel the ache of being watched. I check behind us in traffic. I lock my phone screen, unlock it again. There are no new texts from Alex, just a photo he sent that morning of the dog curled up on my pillow at home.

My building looks unchanged, too normal in the late light. Still, I fumble the keys, heart pounding, until the door finally opens. The moment I step inside, a dozen small, familiar things hit me all at once—the smell of Alex’s aftershave, the faint thump of music from the apartment below, the shoes lined up by the wall. Home.

Alex is in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove. He turns when he hears the door and grins, all warmth and safety.

He’s tall, lanky in a way that always seems on the edge of being graceful or awkward, with a mop of sandy hair that never quite stays tamed, wire-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose, and soft brown eyes that always look a little tired, a little kind. He wears a faded college T-shirt and joggers, his bare feet silent on the tile. “There she is! Survivor of the world’s most boring conference.”

He pulls me into a hug, kisses my hair, his touch gentle. For a moment, I let myself lean into him, hoping the tension will melt away. But even here, I can’t stop replaying the gardenias, the weight of that stranger’s stare, the way I felt split open by something I don’t have words for.

“You okay?” Alex asks, pressing a mug of tea into my hands. “You look… wired.”

I try to laugh it off. “Didn’t sleep much. Hotel beds are the worst.”

He shrugs, unconcerned. “You’re home now.”

I nod, but it feels like a lie. I carry my suitcase into the bedroom. Every shadow in the hallway feels too deep. I check the locks—twice—then tell myself I’m being ridiculous.

Dinner is something simple—pasta, a glass of wine I barely taste. Alex tries to draw me out with stories, jokes, the comfortable routine of two years together. I force a smile, nod, try to match his energy, but my mind drifts. Every time my phone buzzes, my heart leaps and then plummets when it’s just another spam email or group text from Priya. No messages. No threats. No apology. I almost wish for a sign, anything to tell me I’m not losing my mind.

We sit together on the couch after dinner, a show playing low on the TV. Alex rubs my shoulders, hands warm and familiar. “You’re tense,” he says. “Work’s getting to you.”

“Yeah,” I murmur. I want to tell him about the flowers. About the man in the black suit. About the way fear and wanting keep trading places in my chest. But the words knot up and die. If I say it out loud, it’ll be real, and I don’t want to see the look in his eyes—disbelief, or worse, that flash of jealousy I know too well.

My phone vibrates again. Unknown number. Just a single message:

Sweet dreams, Lena.

No name. No punctuation. I freeze, blood roaring in my ears.

Alex leans over, peering at my screen. “Who’s that?”

“Spam,” I lie, thumb trembling as I delete the message. “Conference vendors, probably.”

He shrugs, turning back to the TV. I stare at my phone, throat tight, and press it face down on my thigh. The screen goes black, but I still feel the words burned behind my eyes.

I let him hold me in bed, his arms circling my waist, his chin tucked over my shoulder. He buries his face in my hair and breathes out slow, as if he can anchor me by sheer force of comfort. His hands are gentle, thumb tracing idle patterns on my hip.

He whispers little nothings—how he missed me, how the bed felt cold without me, how he wants to take me away for a weekend, just the two of us. I try to match his warmth, to let myself melt into the shape he makes for me, but every touch feels like it skims the surface.

He rolls me gently onto my back, lips finding my throat, then my mouth—soft, sweet, patient. I let my legs tangle with his, my hands cupping his jaw, fingers threading into his hair. His mouth is familiar, his weight reassuring, the kind of closeness that used to make me feel safe. I want to get lost in it, let him erase the phantom hands at my back, the scent of flowers I can’t wash from my skin.

But even as he moves over me, even as I arch to meet him, my mind is half elsewhere—splitting between the here and now and the memory of that stranger’s gaze. Alex murmurs my name, voice thick with longing, and I answer him in kind, my body moving to his rhythm, letting him love me the way he knows how.

He is careful with me, slow and attentive, coaxing pleasure from habit and trust. I want to respond, to give him the softness he craves, but part of me is numb, drifting. My body answers on reflex, turning to him, letting him pull me closer, but my mind drifts. Even as he presses soft kisses along my neck, even as his hand finds mine and squeezes, all I can think about is the phantom press of eyes at my back, the sense of being watched. I keep half-expecting to see a shadow in the window, or the faint white ghost of gardenias in the dark.

After, Alex tucks me into his chest and falls asleep almost instantly, his breath warm against my ear. I stare at the ceiling, my body cooling, heart restless. I wonder what it means to want safety and danger in the same breath—to be touched by love, and still ache for something you don’t dare name.

When he falls asleep, I lie awake, listening to his breathing, and wonder if anything will ever feel normal again.