Chapter One Hundred Eighteen: The Flower That Wouldn't Bloom
The ring box sat between them like a grenade.
Velvet. Black. Small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Big enough to shatter everything.
Jihan had planned this moment for weeks—the restaurant, the candlelight, the words he'd rehearsed in front of his bathroom mirror like a nervous teenager. He'd imagined her eyes widening, her lips parting, her hand flying to her mouth in that way she did when she was surprised.
He hadn't imagined this.
The silence.
The way she stared at the box like it was a snake coiled to strike.
"No."
The word was soft. Final. It landed between them like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through the candlelight, through the carefully arranged roses, through the hopeful architecture of his heart.
"Arshi—"
"No." She pushed back from the table, her chair scraping against the floor, her hands trembling as she reached for her coat. "I can't. I'm sorry. I can't."
She was gone before he could stand.
Before he could follow.
Before he could tell her that the ring wasn't just gold and diamond—it was his heart, forged and polished and offered.
She left it sitting on the table.
Open.
Empty.
---
The Days That Followed
She stopped answering his calls.
His messages went from delivered to read to nothing at all—not even the blue checkmarks that told him she'd seen his words and chosen not to respond. The flower shop was locked when he passed by, the windows dark, the sign flipped to "Closed" even though the hours on the door said she should be open.
He stood on the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets, his breath misting in the cold air.
He could see her inside.
Moving through the shadows. Arranging flowers that no one would buy. Pretending she couldn't see him standing there, waiting, hoping.
"Flower," he murmured. "Please."
She turned away.
---
The Date
She didn't want to go.
The man was nice enough—a friend of a friend, someone her café coworker had insisted was "perfect" for her. He had a steady job. A kind smile. Eyes that didn't hold secrets she was afraid to uncover.
He wasn't Jihan.
That was the point.
She sat across from him at a small café, stirring her tea, nodding at things he said, smiling when she was supposed to smile. The conversation was easy. Safe. Boring.
Exactly what she needed.
"So," the man said, leaning forward, his smile warm, "tell me about yourself. What do you do when you're not working?"
"I read," she said. "I walk by the river. I—"
The door slammed open.
She didn't need to look.
She felt him—the shift in the air, the tension that crackled through the room like static before a storm. The other patrons glanced up, curious, then quickly looked away when they saw the expression on his face.
Jihan stood in the doorway.
His coat was unbuttoned, his tie loose, his hair disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it for hours. His eyes were wild—dark and burning and fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch.
"Arshi."
The man across from her blinked. "Do you know him?"
"Leave." Jihan's voice was low, dangerous. He didn't look at the man. His eyes never left her face. "Now."
"Excuse me?" The man sat up straighter, his expression shifting from confusion to offense. "I'm having a conversation with—"
"I don't care what you're having." Jihan stepped closer, his presence filling the small café, suffocating the air. "She's not available. She's never available. She's mine."
The man's eyes widened.
"Jihan—" Arshi started.
"She won't have dessert with you." His voice cracked, just slightly, the only sign of the storm raging beneath the surface. "She won't laugh at your jokes or pretend to be interested in your job or let you walk her home. She won't do any of those things because—" He swallowed hard. "Because she belongs with me."
"Jihan, stop—"
"If you want to live," he said, his gaze finally shifting to the man, "leave. Now."
The man didn't need to be told twice.
He scrambled from his chair, nearly knocking over his coffee, and fled through the door without looking back. The other patrons stared for a moment, then quickly returned to their own conversations, pretending they hadn't seen anything.
Jihan stood alone in the center of the café.
His chest was heaving. His hands were shaking. His eyes—his eyes were bright with something that looked like tears.
"Why are you torturing me like this?"
His voice broke on the last word.
Arshi looked away.
"You know I love you." He stepped closer, his hands reaching for hers, his fingers trembling against her skin. "You know I love you so much. Don't do this to me. Please. I beg you."
"Jihan—"
"Don't." His voice cracked again. "Don't push me away. Don't pretend you don't feel it too. I've seen the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching. I've heard the way you say my name when you're half-asleep. I know you love me."
"I don't deserve you."
The words came out flat. Hollow. The words of someone who had said them to herself so many times they'd lost all meaning.
Jihan stared at her.
"You're a CEO." She pulled her hands from his, wrapping her arms around herself. "You're a billionaire. You belong to a world I don't understand—a world of galas and boardrooms and people who look at me like I'm beneath them."
"I don't care about any of that."
"I do." Her voice rose, sharp with desperation. "Your status and my status are different. You're—you're Jihan. And I'm just a flower shop owner. I have nothing to give you. I'm not well-educated. I don't belong to your world."
"I don't want your education or your status." He stepped closer, his hands cupping her face, his thumbs brushing away tears she didn't know she was crying. "I want your heart. Nothing else."
"You deserve better." She tried to pull away, but he held her gently, refusing to let her go. "You could have anyone—models, actresses, heiresses. Someone who fits into your life. Someone your parents would be proud of."
"My parents will love you."
"They won't."
"They will." His voice was fierce, certain. "They will love you because I love you. Because you make me happy. Because you're kind and brave and beautiful—not despite your struggles, but because of them."
She shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. "You don't understand."
"Then help me understand." He pressed his forehead to hers, his breath warm on her lips. "Help me understand why you're pushing me away when all I want is to hold you."
"Because I'm scared." The words tore from her, raw and desperate. "I'm scared of being hurt. I'm scared of being left. I'm scared that one day you'll wake up and realize I'm not enough—that I was never enough—and you'll walk away."
"I'm not going to walk away."
"You don't know that."
"I know." He pulled back, just enough to look into her eyes. "I know because I've been walking toward you since the moment we met. I've been choosing you every day—not because I have to, but because I want to. Because there's no one else I'd rather be with."
She closed her eyes.
"I love you at first," she whispered. "When you came into my shop with your warm bread and your stupid jokes—I loved you. But then I found out what 'CEO' means. What you are. And I let you go. Because I thought—I thought it would be easier than watching you leave later."
Jihan's jaw tightened.
"I'm not going to leave."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." His voice was soft now, gentle, the voice he used when she was scared and pretending not to be. "Because I've already decided. You're it for me, Arshi. You're the one. There's no one else. There will never be anyone else."
She opened her eyes.
His face was inches from hers—his dark eyes, his soft mouth, the faint lines of worry etched around his brows. He looked tired. Exhausted. Like he hadn't slept in days.
Because he hadn't.
He'd been searching for her. Calling her. Standing outside her shop in the cold, hoping she'd change her mind.
"I can't promise you a perfect life," he said quietly. "I can't promise you that we won't fight, or that the world won't try to tear us apart. But I can promise you this—I will never stop choosing you. Not tomorrow. Not next year. Not when we're old and grey and too tired to argue about stupid things."
A sob escaped her.
"Your parents—"
"Will adore you." He smiled, soft and sure. "They've been asking about you for weeks. My mother wants to know when she can finally meet the woman who's made her son so happy."
"Your mother doesn't even know me."
"Then let's fix that." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring box—the same one she'd left on the table at the restaurant. He opened it, the diamond catching the light, and held it out to her. "Let me take you home. Let me introduce you to my family. Let me show you that you're not too much—you're exactly enough."
She stared at the ring.
Her hands were shaking. Her heart was pounding. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to hide, to protect herself from the possibility of pain.
But his eyes—his eyes were steady. Warm. Full of a love so patient, so certain, it made her chest ache.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
"I know." He took her hand, his fingers lacing through hers. "But you don't have to be scared alone anymore."
She looked at their joined hands.
Then at his face.
Then at the ring, still gleaming in its velvet bed.
"Yes," she whispered.
His breath caught. "Yes?"
"Yes." She laughed, the sound wet and broken and beautiful. "Yes, I'll marry you, you impossible, persistent, infuriating man."
He kissed her.
Not gently—not the soft, careful kiss he'd given her before. This kiss was fierce, desperate, full of all the words he couldn't say. His hands tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, and she clung to him like he was the only solid thing in a world that had been spinning for too long.
When they finally broke apart, they were both crying.
"I love you," he said. "I love you so much."
"I love you too." She pressed her forehead to his. "Even though you're annoying."
"Especially because I'm annoying."
She laughed again, and the sound was lighter this time—brighter, like something blooming after a long, cold winter.
He slipped the ring onto her finger.
It fit perfectly.
Like it had been waiting for her all along.
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