The next morning, the fluorescent lights of the corporate office felt almost blinding after the velvet darkness of the club. Aria stepped out of the elevator with her usual cup of coffee, heels clicking against the tile. She expected the usual Monday rush—emails, meetings, Sophia’s dramatic retelling of her weekend. Instead, she stopped dead three feet from her desk.
A massive bouquet of white roses sat in the center of her workspace. At least two dozen blooms, each one perfect, the petals so pale they almost glowed under the overhead lights. No card. No delivery slip. Just the flowers, arranged like they belonged there.
Sophia appeared at her elbow, eyes wide. “Okay, who died? Or did you finally win the lottery and forget to tell me?”
Aria set her coffee down slowly. “They’re not mine.
