CALLUM'S POV
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Somehow, I stole a few hours of sleep that tasted more like surrender than rest.
I woke up, staring at myself. Mirrors on the ceiling. Because twenty-three-year-old me thought orgies were a personality trait and never bothered taking them down. Six years later, and the joke was still on me. Proof that some mistakes outlive the person who made them.
Sunlight streamed through the penthouse windows, blinding me for a moment. I dragged a hand over my face and sighed. Using my other hand to pat the bed for my phone, I felt nothing. I craned my neck forward and found it lying face down on the carpet.
I did not remember throwing it.
Picking it up, I glanced at the messages I'd refused to acknowledge yesterday.
Sixty-seven new messages.
The family group chat, called The Sterling Empire (conceited, I know), had been resurrected from the dead. I'd changed numbers twice. How the hell did they always find me? I scoffed, certain this was Chris's handiwork.
I left it unread.
Tossing the phone aside, I headed for the bathroom. Shower on, shower off in record time. I towelled my hair, caught my reflection, and stopped.
A familiar stranger stared back. Wet hair, dark circles under brown eyes, the five o'clock shadow doing me no favours.
I looked like I'd been dragged through yesterday backwards. This was why I avoided mirrors in the first place.
I didn't need to see the dead man I'd already become.
"I'm getting those taken down," I muttered.
Stepping out of the bathroom, that's when I saw it. A single yellow zinnia leaned against the lamp on the nightstand, as if it belonged there.
I froze.
I barely remembered anything after Taffy's text killed the warmth in my chest, snuffing it out like a candle. Yet there it was, the only burst of colour in the entire monochrome room.
I walked over slowly, half expecting it to vanish. The stem was cool under my fingertips. One petal had a tiny bruise where I must have gripped it too hard the previous night, but overall, it was still intact.
Nora's voice floated back. My advice? Look up what they mean. My fingers paused slightly over the petals.
Yesterday felt like a fever dream. First panic attack outside in years, all I remembered was my lungs closing like fists, and then warmth. Overwhelming, ridiculous warmth. Golden hair catching the light. A flower crown on a stupidly beautiful man. Eyes so blue they looked photoshopped, and a croissant that tasted like someone giving a damn.
I sat on the edge of the bed, the flower cradled in my palm.
"Maybe you need water," I said out loud, as if it could hear me. "How the hell do you even take care of something like this?"
All I know how to do is destroy things.
My thumb brushed a petal. Soft. Too soft. Like everything in that shop.
I gave in.
I googled it.
Yellow Zinnias mean Daily Remembrance.
The words felt like a slap. This has to be a sick joke.
My throat tightened. No. I was overthinking shit. It was just a flower, a random act of pity for the drenched lunatic dripping on their floor. Right?
My pulse said otherwise, dragging the question back with it: did he mean something else?
I typed like a man trying to outrun his own thoughts. How to care for cut zinnias for dummies? I pressed Enter, and the internet spat out a dissertation. Twenty minutes of flower-maintenance hell later, I had the basics.
Trim the stem at a 45-degree angle. Change the water daily. Keep away from direct sunlight and fruit bowls. They last seven to ten days if you're not an idiot.
Seven to ten days.
I glanced at the bruised petal. Ten days suddenly felt like a challenge.
Another buzz. And I was ready to hurl my phone out the window. I took a glance at the notification.
Chris.
Dinner. Estate. 6 PM. Don't make this harder than it has to be.
I stared at the screen until the words blurred. When I looked down, the zinnia was crushed in my hand, a few petals crumpled beyond saving.
I winced, easing my grip, smoothing it carefully, uselessly.
"Time to face the music," I whispered.
I found an unused vase in the kitchen, some pretentious crystal thing I'd never touched, and filled it with water. Not finding a pair of scissors, I trimmed the stem with a steak knife because it was the sharpest thing I owned. The flower looked out of place in that oversized vase.
At least it was alive. For some reason, that mattered.
For now, that would have to be enough.
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5:51 p.m.
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The car idled outside the gates, and if it wasn't obvious, I was procrastinating the inevitable.
After the invitation sank in, I'd practically begged Taffy to come with me, but she'd flat-out refused. "Family only," she'd said, then sent a GIF of someone being thrown to the wolves.
I tried to threaten her with cutting her bonus, and she replied with crying-laughing emojis and a voice note of herself cackling.
Traitor.
I wore the navy sweater she'd picked, soft and the colour of midnight lies with tailored brown chinos and the watch Dad gave me when I turned twenty-one on my wrist, although I had to go through three cigarettes and a shit ton of cologne sprayed on me after to make myself presentable.
Everything was perfect—everything was armour.
The driver glanced in the rearview. "Ready, sir?"
I followed his gaze to the passenger seat.
Earlier, I'd asked Taffy to send a bouquet of zinnias. Now they sat there, delicately wrapped, and I thought this was a foolish idea.
"Give me one minute."
I rolled the window down. Cold air filled the space. The gates loomed, black iron, family crest, everything I'd run from, yet somehow I'm back.
My thumb found the bruised petal again. For some reason, I kept it. If I concentrated enough, I could still smell flowers and powdered sugar.
Get it together, Callum.
Another text. Unknown number.
Welcome home, son.
Dad. Of course.
I closed my eyes.
"Drive."
The car rolled forward. Gravel crunched like bones.
The estate hadn't changed—same manicured lawns, same marble fountain, same grand doors that opened before you even reached them.
Chris was waiting on the steps.
He looked older—not bad, just different with the beard he'd grown out. I reached the front steps, and my older brother's arms were crossed, like he'd been practicing disapproval from our mother, no doubt. We had the same face, same jaw, same eyes, same brown hair. Same everything, except he'd stayed.
He took one look at me, assessing not so subtly, face impassive as always. "The prodigal son returns."
I walked closer to him, my steps faltering for a second, and then I was in front of him, bouquet in hand.
Chris's gaze flicked downward. "What the hell is that?"
"A basket of wipes. What do you think?" I quipped, restraining my eyeroll.
He scorned. "You always were allergic to normal greetings."
"Takes one to know one."
"Bringing bribes for mum won't lessen her questions." He said, disregarding my earlier statement, turned and headed inside.
Inside, the foyer smelled like vanilla and jasmine, Mom's signature. She appeared before I could brace myself, eyes already glassy.
"Callum."
One word, and she was crying. Arms around my neck, perfume choking me, the bouquet trapped between us like contraband. She clutched me like I'd survived a war she didn't know the name of.
"You're too thin," she whispered into my shoulder. "Singapore didn't feed you."
Dad stood behind her, hands in pockets, staring at both of us. He could pretend all he wanted, but I know he was emotional. His gaze went straight to the bouquet when Mum finally released me. I handed it over to her. She touched a petal like it might bite her. I wondered if she could smell panic on them.
My sister and bride-to-be Amelia launched herself next, squealing loud enough to fracture glass.
"You came," she said, like I'd had much of a choice. And commenced to throttle me in a bone-crushing hug that turned into a headlock.
I scoffed, prying her hands away while she laughed. Mum shot her a look that clearly meant act accordingly, and immediately she straightened back to the graceful only daughter of the Sterlings, the media adored.
Dad took my mother's arm and said, "Shall we?" We followed them down the hall, every step sinking deeper into old ghosts. Dinner was announced before anyone could ask real questions.
The dining room was the same battlefield. Long mahogany table. Glass decor. Too many forks.
A nanny stretched to collect the bouquet, but Mom insisted on putting the Zinnias in a proper vase by herself. I watched her carry the bouquet away like it was fine china. When she came back, the flowers sat at the center of the table setting in Waterford crystal, looking bright and defiant among the silver.
The conversation started safe.
The wedding. The venue. The dress. How many cousins were flying in?
Then Chris leaned back, wine glass dangling from his fingers, and had to open his mouth.
"So, how was Singapore? We tried to reach you, but you kept dodging."
I forked some pasta. "It was fine. The branch has grown significantly."
He hummed, whilst sipping his wine, "Well, that's all thanks to you." I grunted, wanting the conversation to end as I tried to shovel the spaghetti, barely tasting the saffron, but of course he had another idea.
"Where were you yesterday? My assistant came over to the penthouse, but you weren't around."
"Are you still monitoring me?" I asked, setting my cutlery down while glaring at my brother, who, as usual, seemed unfazed.
"Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?" he said, as if the idea of not tracking my movements was preposterous.
"So where were you?"
Three pairs of eyes zoned in on me, and I scoffed, "Jet lag. Went for a walk."
Mum reached for my hand. "In the rain?"
Dad's eyes narrowed a bit, but he carried on eating. "You look like something followed you home."
I laughed, although it came out rough. "Something like that."
Amelia tilted her head, and some of her black, wavy hair fell into her eyes. The movement was so similar to him that it gave me pause. "You are alright, right?"
I looked at the zinnias glowing under the chandelier like they were daring me to say the truth. "Just tired," I said.
"You brought flowers to dinner. That's new compared to the usual deeds you bring to the table." Chris piped up, and I glared at him, and so did Mum.
"It's very thoughtful of him. Why didn't I get any from you, hmm?" she chided Chris, raising an eyebrow. He choked on his wine. She turned to me, her face softening. "I love them." My chest felt constricted all of a sudden. I smiled back, but it felt weak.
Conversation carried on, and it felt bizarre and yet familiar. As everyone collectively decided to act like the years I left didn't happen.
Dessert came and went. Bringing the inevitable silence where no one said what needed to be said.
I caught my reflection in the Christofle pitcher, same cheekbones, same mouth, same eyes; they all remembered.
But the man sitting here? They didn't know him.
Under the table, my fingers closed around the bruised petal I'd carried in my pocket all day.
Daily remembrance.
Yeah.
I remembered everything. And the guilt isn't going anywhere.