The minute Celeste walked into Roman’s flower shop, a swirl of lavender and baby’s breath surrounded her. A worried-looking skinny gentleman, clad in a basic button-up and distressed jeans, looked at her. He stood up from behind the arrangement counter, where he’d been tucking in a stray carnation stem in a vase. Gentle sunlight fell through tall windows, illuminating ranks of potted greenery and the infrequent cluster of colourful blooms. Celeste settled in a floral armchair close to the corner, exhaustion weighing down her features.
Roman moved closer, tone laced with worry. “I hate it when you’re like this,” he said gently, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Have you thought of calling someone who can help?” She stiffened, pride igniting in her chest. Declining external assistance had become a habit. But the foreclosure notice pounded on her mind, signalling to her just how tenuous her situation had become. She swallowed the lump in her throat and looked away.
“I take care of my own problems,” she finally said, and yet the note of indecision betrayed her. The phone on her lap chirped, a new alert about an overdue payment. She drew back as if stung in her body. The reality of growing bills was inescapable. Roman breathed out, his eyes darting over the lines of dread on her face. He was a comforting presence, a steadying force amid the swirl of her life’s turbulence. Even so, he reiterated his advice to reach out to someone with deep pockets, if only to buy time.
Celeste inhaled shakily. “Who exactly?” she said hollowly, laughing. “I don’t have a ready-made list of rich friends to draw on.” The sarcasm barely concealed her desperation. Roman’s mouth quivered, sympathy woven through every wrinkle. As he reached out to comfort her, a jarring noise near the entrance drew their attention.
They looked up to see Caspian Hayes walking into the shop. His penetrating stare scanned the group with collected indifference, the tailored suit he wore framing his statuesque physique. The sun warmed the hard line of his jaw. A hush followed, making the gentle whirr of the fridge unit deafening. Roman stiffened defensively next to Celeste. She froze, her heart racing at Caspian’s arrival. He considered the slump of her shoulders, the worry that clouded her eyes, and took one step forward.
“Celeste,” he said quiet, no warmth in his voice. In that silence, the air quivered, thick with possibility, and an undercurrent of tension skittered through the aromatic shop.
With a curt nod, Caspian waved Roman away and gestured to Celeste to follow him deeper into the shop, out of sight of casual onlookers. The overhead lights refracted on the glossed floor, giving the moment a starkness that was disturbing. Dust motes hung in the stagnant air as Celeste trailed behind him, every nerve set to high decibels. Lonely now, by a shelf of bright gerberas, he turned to her, his dark brows drawn in a serious line.
“I know about your financial bind,” he said, his voice a tight wire of calm. Celeste felt her spine stiffen, indignation at having been intruded upon, battling with wordless relief that somebody, anybody, cared enough to recognize when something was wrong. She started to protest, but he raised a hand to halt her objection. “You’re right on the edge of losing your home, aren’t you?” he pressed, every syllable exact. A peculiar cross of embarrassment and anger flooded through her; her pulse hammered.
She cleared her throat, trying to keep herself together. “That’s none of your business,” she said, keeping the full depth of her vulnerability from being visible to him. Caspian narrowed his eyes as if he could sense every whisper of panic in the web of her words. Tension crackled between them, the echo of what once was lingering in the air. He looked away at a display of marigolds, then back at her.
“I can do something about this,” he added, his tone deepening. “I will take care of your debts, every single cent.” Her heart raced at the promise, hope crashing against caution. She waited for the kicker, sensing it already.” When his voice faltered, a glimmer of something hurt flashed in his eyes. “But there is a condition,” he said. “I need a wife before I turn thirty-three, and I’ve decided that you’re going to be it.”
Disbelief rattled her. All at once, the proposition floated in the air, strange and seductive. Her mind galloped in circles, recalling eviction notices taped to the fridge, that doomed final date approaching by the day. She laughed then, but the mirth didn’t reach her eyes. “You can’t be serious. You hate me, remember?”
He looked her over as though he, too, struggled with old pains. “You have until tomorrow to accept,” he said, brushing aside her jab. Then the slightest dip of his head, and he slipped out the back door of the shop. Celeste stayed, frozen in place, the insistence of his proposition settling on her chest like tethered breath.
The light drained from Celeste’s little living room, throwing uneven shadows on the shabby wallpaper. She hovered over the light flickering under the lamp, reading Caspian’s proposal for the fourth time that night. She gripped the crisp paper as though it was completely foreign to her, each rigorously typed clause taunting her with the glorious truth that she was minutes away from writing away her freedom for a slim chance at redemption. Her thoughts spun around and around, trying to grasp stray visions of happier times cradled in his arms, mornings of playful banter in place of hellfire ultimatums.
In the silence, she remembered the day her father repainted these walls while humming happily as her mother ribbed him. That same little swirl of familiarity felt charged, ready to buckle under overdue bills and knotted-up feelings. The idea of begging for mercy from a man disgusted her, but the approaching foreclosure date had her stomach twisting in fear. She reached with a shaking hand to the last eviction notice, taped haplessly to the door of her old fridge. Its typed lines stared back like a judge’s sentence.
Roman’s phrases floated through her memory: entering Caspian’s universe is to enter a maze. She knew just how cunning the Hayes clan could be, especially Caspian’s father. But all the warnings hadn’t removed the fear of losing her home, the final token of her parents’ love. A wave of guilt flared. Once, she’d left Caspian without ever saying exactly why. To believe that he would help her and not feel a little resentment, well, that was naive.
Exhaling shakily, she tapped her phone screen, finding its battery down to the last sliver of life. Swallowing her pride, she said, “We need to talk. About your proposal.” Her heart pounded as her finger hovered above the send button. The memory of Caspian’s sharp eyes and the fury bubbling beneath the surface had her skin prickling. But she hit send, realizing there was no solution to ignoring him.
The phone’s battery drained in her hand, leaving the room in nervous digital silence. She put it down, her body buzzing with unsatisfied tension. And no matter how she tried to spin the facts, only one logical conclusion could be drawn about her financial horror show: accept Caspian’s ludicrous arrangement, ride out the tempest it’d unleash, and pray she came out intact. To lean against the fraying cushions of the sofa, she closed her eyes, tears a breath away. In her intense silence, she trained her resolve to fortitude, relative clenching of her jaw, even if part of her redemption involved retracing her steps into a life that once felt like the man who kept her heart in his pocket.