GHOST:Having you across my knee would be more effective.
I bite my lip, warmth spreading through me at the thought. Just a text from him is enough to make me ache in that soft, awful way.
ME:I’m looking at rental spaces for my flower shop, perv. Stop distracting me.
He doesn’t reply right away, but when he does, I can’t stop the smile from stretching across my face. He’s sent a few links to rental spaces in Pennsylvania.
GHOST:I could be more specific if you give me a city at least. I’d find you the perfect space with French windows and plenty of light.
I set the phone down for a second, chest a little tight now. I mentioned French windows once in passing months ago and he remembered. Just like he always does. Every small, quiet detail I never thought anyone heard.
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering.
I’m not used to being listened to. Not with parents who were always too busy winning elections. Not with a brother who’s toobusy breaking NHL records for me to feel like my flower shop is important enough for his time.
But Ghost remembers everything, and he brings it all up so casually. Like it’s not a big deal.
He makes me feel seen. Not like some politician’s daughter with a pretty smile and “good breeding,” but like a real person. A whole one.
I glance back at another overpriced listing on my laptop. A shoebox in downtown Miami for a price that makes me want to scream. I exhale hard and close my tablet, letting my head fall back against the cushion.
This dream... it’s not just a hobby. It’s an escape plan.
I’ve loved flowers since I was a kid. Something about taking something and watching it thrive with just a little time and patience. I still remember the first time Dominic helped me plant seeds in the backyard. I was six and he was twelve. I cried when the daisies bloomed.
It’s always been that simple. I want to nurture and build.
But my parents don’t believe in flowers. They believe in power and legacy.
They believe in marrying me off to some senator’s emotionally stunted son so we can strengthen political alliances like this is Game of Thrones.
They gave me one year and zero dollars to start this business. To prove it’s real and viable.
If it fails, I go home and become a puppet in a Chanel suit. I smile at press events and pretend I care about zoning policies. I marry someone who probably refers to women as “females” and brags about crypto at dinner.
No. I won’t let it happen. But I’m scared of proving my parents right. Of letting Dominic down after he fought tooth and nail for his own escape and gave me the chance to make mine.
The sound of the front door closing echoes faintly through the upstairs hallway, followed by deep voices.
They’re back.
I freeze halfway through scrolling a real estate listing that’s almost in my price range if I give up food for six months.
I know one of the voices belongs to my brother. It’s confident, deep, and smooth. But the other? The one that’s more gravelly and rougher…
Of course he came back with Dom.
Of course they’re on the patio now, probably making drinks at the outdoor bar.
I crack the balcony door of my room and step out. Their voices get louder as I peek over the railing.
There he is, sprawled back in a chair across from my brother, tattooed arms relaxed over the sides. Head tilted as he says something that makes Dom laugh and shake his head.
And just like that, I feel it again. That low, slow buzz under my skin, like my body’s reacting before I can even think. It’s heat and guilt all at once.
I want to look away, but I don’t.
Because of course my plan to stay the hell away from this man was never going to work. Not when it looks like he’s best friends with my brother.
