Michael’s Message

Michael’s Message

The city outside Beaumont Constructions glowed under a storm-lit sky, all steel and glass smeared with rain. From the thirty-seventh floor, Tucker watched the blur of headlights crawling through the wet streets below, his reflection ghosting over the pane.

The message had arrived an hour ago. Anonymous. Short. Brutal.

Ask your father about Project Halcyon.

No signature. No explanation.

Just those words.

His fingers tightened around the whiskey glass in his hand until the crystal creaked.

Behind him, his chief of security, Roman Grant, hovered uncertainly. “We traced the source.”

“And?” Tucker’s voice was low, dangerous.

“Public terminal. Near Milton’s Flower Shop.”

Tucker turned slowly, eyes sharp. “Milton. Scarlet’s old employer.”

Roman nodded once. “Could be coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in those anymore.” Tucker crossed the room, every step precise, deliberate. “Get me the financial records for the last ten years. I want every transaction with Beaumont Constructions and every offshore subsidiary.”

Roman hesitated. “That’ll take time.”

“Then you’d better move fast.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He moved back to the desk, yanked open a drawer, and pulled out a black folder one of the dozens Wyatt insisted were too sensitive for digital storage.

He hadn’t looked through them in years.

Tonight, he would.

The door slammed behind Roman as he left.

Tucker flipped through the files with mechanical precision. Land purchases. Asset transfers. Shell companies.

Nothing illegal.

Nothing obvious.

His phone buzzed on the desk.

He answered without thinking. “Tucker Beaumont.”

A low voice rasped through the line. “Project Halcyon was buried under your name. You’re the one who’ll fall when it burns.”

The line went dead.

Tucker stared at the phone, breathing hard.

He grabbed a second whiskey. Drank it straight down.

Then he picked up the files again, faster now, fingers smudging the pristine pages.

Halfway through the second folder, he found it.

Small print. Tiny details.

Project Halcyon.

His pulse spiked.

Beaumont Constructions had transferred millions on paper to a development project overseas. But the land didn’t exist. The building permits were fake. The signatures, however, were real.

His.

Wyatt’s.

And a third one he didn’t recognize.

He scanned the paperwork again, heart hammering.

The money was gone.

Laundered.

And every trail pointed straight to Tucker Beaumont.

He stumbled back from the desk, heart crashing against his ribs.

The room seemed to tilt.

Wyatt had set him up.

Not recently.

For years.

Built the noose around his neck with the slow patience of a craftsman.

"Son of a bitch," Tucker whispered.

He yanked out the drawer completely, dumping papers across the carpet.

He dug through them like a man searching for oxygen.

Project Halcyon.

Wyatt’s signature.

Tucker’s own name, used like a weapon.

He grabbed his phone again, dialing Roman with shaking fingers.

"Bring me the full internal audit reports," he barked the moment the line connected. "Now."

Roman didn’t argue.

The connection ended.

Tucker leaned both palms on the desk, breathing hard.

His mind raced.

Scarlet.

The setup.

Gabrielle.

The photographs.

The scandal.

All of it perfect distractions while Wyatt secured the final betrayal.

A scandal to ruin Scarlet. A fraud to destroy Tucker.

And Wyatt would walk away clean, taking the empire with him.

Tucker straightened slowly, the fury inside him sharpening into something colder, deadlier.

He grabbed the file with Wyatt’s signature, tucked it into a leather portfolio, and slammed it shut.

No more doubts.

No more forgiveness.

The gloves were off now.

He would end this.

He would end all of it.

The storm outside pounded against the glass, wild and merciless.

And inside the penthouse office of Beaumont Constructions, Tucker Beaumont smiled for the first time in days.

But it wasn’t a smile anyone would recognize.

It was war.

The bell above the door jingled as Scarlet stepped into Milton’s Flowers. The familiar scent of jasmine, lavender, and fresh earth hit her like a memory she hadn’t asked for. She stood there for a moment, letting the door swing closed behind her, letting the warmth of the shop wrap around her rain-chilled skin.

Bernard Milton looked up from behind the counter. His suspenders were crooked, and his white hair looked a little more disheveled than the last time she'd seen him. His brown eyes softened when they landed on her.

“Well, look what the storm dragged in,” Bernard said, his voice gruff but kind.

Scarlet managed a small smile. “Hey, Bernard.”

He put down the bouquet he was arranging and wiped his hands on a rag. “Come here, girl.”

She crossed the floor slowly, the old wood groaning under her steps.

Bernard pulled her into a hug without asking, his arms strong and warm. For a moment, she just stood there, letting someone else hold the weight for her. Then she pulled back.

“Didn’t expect to see you again,” he said, searching her face.

“I needed work,” she said simply.

“You’ve got it.” No hesitation. No pity. Just fact.

Scarlet swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

Bernard nodded toward the back. “Your apron’s still hangin’ on the hook. Thought about throwin’ it out once or twice, but somethin’ told me you might come back.”

She didn’t trust her voice enough to answer. She just went.

The back room smelled like old wood and sunshine. Her apron was right where he said it would be, a little dusty, a little wrinkled, but waiting.

She pulled it over her head, tying it around her waist with hands that only shook a little.

She wasn’t the same girl who had worn it last.

Scarlet spent the next few hours sweeping the floor, trimming stems, arranging bouquets. Bernard didn’t ask questions. He just worked beside her in silence, sometimes humming an old country tune under his breath.

Customers came and went.

Some recognized her.

Whispers floated behind her back like falling petals.

Is that Scarlet Beaumont?
Did you hear?
She cheated.
She fell.

Scarlet kept her head down.

She didn’t break.

When the clock chimed six, Bernard flipped the CLOSED sign and locked the door.

“You’re stayin’ with me tonight,” he said without looking up from the counter.

Scarlet opened her mouth to argue.

He cut her off. “Ain’t a request.”

She closed her mouth.

They ate dinner in the small kitchen above the shop. Casserole and cornbread and sweet tea. Bernard told stories about customers who tried to haggle over the price of lilies. Scarlet listened. She didn’t laugh. But she listened.

Afterward, he showed her to the guest room.

The bed was small. The walls were covered in faded wallpaper. There was a single window, rattling softly in the wind.

On the nightstand, a battered journal and a pen waited.

She sat on the edge of the bed, peeling off her shoes, her coat, her armor.

She picked up the journal.

Opened to the first blank page.

The words came slower this time, like blood from a reopened wound.

Never again.
Not for love.
Not for Tucker.

She closed the journal gently.

Set it down.

And lay back on the bed, staring at the cracked ceiling until the weight of the day dragged her into sleep.

Downstairs, Bernard washed the dishes, humming low and steady, as if he could scrub away the sadness with soap and old songs.

Outside, the storm raged.

Inside, something colder settled into Scarlet’s bones.

The part of her that still believed in love cracked tonight.

And there would be no mending it.