His dangerous obsession

Chapter Two – The Man on the Magazine

Florence’s heels clicked across the marble floor of the lobby as she pushed the glass door open and stepped into the cool, polished world of Hartwell & Bloom. Mondays always smelled the same here, fresh coffee brewing from the communal pot near reception, the faint tang of disinfectant wiped across glass partitions, and paper warmed by the printer that never seemed to rest.

The firm wasn’t the biggest in Miami, but it carried weight. Insurance, investments, and enough wealth management jargon to make outsiders’ heads spin. To Florence, though, it was more than spreadsheets and contracts. It was stable. It was her place. It was proof that she could stand on her own two feet.

She smiled at Kayla, the receptionist perched at her sleek desk, glossy braids tied in a bun high on her head. Kayla had her phone tucked beneath a folder, clearly texting, but still managed a grin back.

“Morning, Flo,” Kayla chimed, lifting her coffee. “You look like you’re glowing. Did Henry take you out again last night?”

Florence shook her head with a small laugh, adjusting the strap of her leather tote on her shoulder. “No, just a beach day with Gwen. But thanks,I’ll take that compliment.”

“Beach glow,” Kayla teased, and Florence rolled her eyes as she made her way down the hall.

Her desk sat by the large window on the third floor, sunlight spilling across it in wide bands. She’d decorated it with framed photos,her and Gwen at senior prom, her and Henry grinning on a rooftop bar, the three of them during a Halloween party where Henry wore a ridiculous cape. Little anchors, reminding her that her life wasn’t just numbers on a screen.

Florence set her bag down, powered on her computer, and sorted through the neat stack of files she’d left herself Friday evening. That was the kind of person she was: she liked things in order. She liked to know what was coming.

But order was the first thing that unraveled.

At precisely 9:45, just when she was settling into the rhythm of drafting an insurance policy amendment, a shadow fell across her desk. She looked up, startled. A deliveryman in a neat uniform stood there, clutching a vase so stuffed with roses it looked like it belonged in a wedding spread.

“Delivery for Florence Hale,” he announced, checking the card.

Her coworkers’ heads lifted instantly, like meerkats.

Florence blinked. “That’s me.”

The man set the vase on her desk, and the perfume of fresh roses,deep red, their petals unfolding like secrets filled the air. Tied around them was a pale satin ribbon, and tucked inside was a cream-colored card embossed with Henry’s sharp handwriting.

For the woman who makes every Monday feel like Friday. —H.

Her cheeks heated. She heard the soft gasp of Melinda, the analyst at the desk beside hers.

“Oh my God,” Melinda whispered dramatically, leaning close to inhale the roses. “Is Henry trying to make every man in this office look bad?”

Kayla had materialized at the corner of her desk too, sipping coffee like she was watching a show. “Girl, if you don’t marry him already…”

Florence laughed, shaking her head, though she couldn’t keep the warmth from blooming in her chest. That was Henry,romantic in the most effortless way. He knew when to do something grand without it ever feeling over the top.

She lifted the card again, rereading it with a private smile. It wasn’t the words themselves,it was the intention. The reminder that she was seen. Cherished.

Melinda sighed, placing a hand over her heart. “You don’t understand. My husband thinks buying takeout on Fridays is romance. Meanwhile, you’re out here living in a Nicholas Sparks movie.”

Florence only laughed again, though deep inside she felt lucky. Lucky and maybe a little guilty that she sometimes wished for… more. Not more love. Henry gave that in abundance but more spark. Something she’d never admit out loud.

The flowers stayed on her desk the rest of the day, a source of envy, a point of whispered comments, and a buoy that kept Florence moving through the grind of endless reports.

By the time five rolled around, she packed her things with a light mood. She texted Gwen to confirm dinner, and her friend replied instantly with a string of exclamation marks and a location pin.

They chose a small outdoor café near South Beach, its string lights already glowing as the sun dipped low. Gwen was already there, naturally, waving her manicured hand like a flag. She wore a sundress splashed with coral pinks and yellows, her curls bouncing as she stood to hug Florence.

“You took forever,” Gwen scolded, though her smile softened the words. “Tell me work didn’t swallow you whole.”

Florence rolled her eyes, sliding into the chair opposite. “Some of us can’t live at the beach, you know.”

“Oh, but we’d look good doing it,” Gwen countered with a wink.

A waiter brought them iced teas and menus, but Gwen didn’t even open hers. Instead, she pulled a magazine from her oversized tote and slammed it onto the table with a flourish.

The glossy cover glared under the café lights. Florence’s eyes landed on the man who dominated it.

Dark hair combed back in ruthless precision. Jawline cut like it had been chiseled by sculptors. Eyes so sharp and unreadable they seemed to pin the reader in place even from print. His name sprawled across the page in bold white letters:

The Untouchable Titan: Adrian Cross Expands His Empire Again.

Florence snorted before she could stop herself. “Really, Gwen?”

“Really,” Gwen shot back, fanning herself with the magazine. “You cannot look at this man and tell me God doesn’t play favorites.”

“He’s ruthless,” Florence said flatly. She pushed the magazine back. “Cold. He’s… everything those business tycoons are. Not to mention completely out of reach.”

“And yet,” Gwen said dramatically, “he exists. And I, for one, am manifesting my future husband.”

Florence shook her head, sipping her tea. “You don’t even know where he gets his money from. Half of those articles hint at scandals, shady deals, off-shore accounts. He probably dines with politicians who sell their souls.”

“I don’t care where he gets it from,” Gwen said, eyes glinting as she tapped the photo. “All I care about is that face. That jawline. And, Flo, come on, the mystery is part of the allure. Anything can happen. And I’d be happy to be headline-worthy.”

Florence rolled her eyes, though she felt something twist inside her chest. Because Gwen wasn’t wrong at least, not about his looks. There was something magnetic about him, even through the thin gloss of a magazine cover.

Still, she scoffed, “Headlines are always chasing him. That’s not a good thing.”

“That’s the thing,” Gwen countered with a grin. “I just want to be the reason for one of those headlines.”

Florence shook her head again, but secretly, her gaze lingered a moment too long on the magazine before she looked away. His eyes,those unreadable, storm-dark eyes felt like they were looking through her even in print.

And though she told herself it was ridiculous, a flicker of cu

riosity sparked in her chest. Just a flicker.