Emma's Pov
The white lilies arrived at 9:00 AM, delivered by a man in a discreet, dark uniform who simply handed the colossal arrangement to Cole—who was standing guard near the lobby entrance—and then vanished. Cole, in turn, delivered them to my door, his face a perfect mask of professional neutrality.
The flowers were magnificent: white, star-bursting perfection, impossibly fragrant, a message of pure, unadulterated dominance. They occupied half of my newly assembled drafting table, and they were the purest reflection of Damian Thorne I had ever encountered. There was no card, no explanation, only the silent, fragrant promise of professional goodwill, a perfect lie to cover the truth of the previous night's whispered promise.
Sleep well, Emma. The city is quiet tonight.
