His One Night Obsession

Coming Home

Florence's POV

The parking garage echoed.

It always did. That hollow bounce of sound off concrete amplified every footstep beyond reason. I'd parked on the third level, and the elevator down to the lobby had broken again - the third time this month. That meant the stairs. That meant hauling a bouquet, a gift box, and far too many balloons down two flights while my five-inch heels clicked against every single step like a metronome counting down to something I couldn't name yet.

I made it.

Barely.

By the time I wrestled everything through the lobby and into my private elevator, I was laughing at myself, breathless and feeling a little ridiculous. The balloons pressed against the ceiling, their ribbon tails brushing my face every time I shifted. I tucked the gift box under my arm and used my free hand to bat them away, still smiling at the absurdity of it all. This wasn't how powerful CEOs were supposed to look - flustered and fighting with party decorations - but tonight wasn't about power. Tonight was about us.

The elevator had one button.

That detail still got me every time. One button. My floor. My penthouse. Mine. Purchased and paid for by the work I put in every day at that desk on the fourteenth floor, by the deals I'd closed and the risks I'd taken when everyone said I'd fail. I hadn't come from money. My mother had worked two jobs just to keep us fed. I'd built this empire from nothing and kept pushing until it transformed into something that looked like this - a single-button elevator and a view of the city that made people go quiet the first time they saw it, their breath catching at the impossible beauty of it all.

I pressed the button and felt the familiar lift beneath my feet.

I used the ride up to pull myself together. Shifted the box to a more secure position, gathered the ribbon tails in one fist, rolled my shoulders back. I wanted to walk in looking like I had my s**t together, like tonight was planned from the first second. Which it was. I'd been planning this anniversary surprise for weeks, coordinating with his assistant, rearranging my schedule, choosing the perfect gift. Everything had to be perfect because Carter deserved perfect.

The elevator chimed.

The doors opened and I stepped out into the entryway. The familiar smell of home hit me right away - warm and close, that blend of his cologne and the lavender candles I kept on the console table. Safety. Comfort. Love.

"Carter?" I called out, moving forward with anticipation bubbling in my chest. "I'm home!"

Silence.

I took a few more steps in, listening. The living room was empty, the throw pillows still arranged exactly as I'd left them this morning. The kitchen sat dark, no smell of dinner cooking. Then I heard it. Faint and muffled, coming from the direction of the bedroom. A sound I couldn't quite identify from here, but something was definitely on. Television probably. He got locked into his shows and the rest of the world stopped existing. It happened all the time, especially when he was binge-watching one of those crime dramas he loved.

I smiled to myself and kept moving, imagining his surprised face when he saw what I'd brought.

My left foot slid forward.

Not a trip. Not a stumble. Just that sudden slick glide that happens when your shoe meets something on the floor it wasn't expecting. I caught myself fast, one hand shooting out toward the wall, my heart jumping at the unexpected loss of balance. The gift box lurched in my grip.

"What the hell?"

I looked down.

The balloon ribbons slipped through my fingers, floating upward. The bouquet tilted dangerously. The gift box went still under my arm as every muscle in my body froze.

On the floor beneath the toe of my boot was a thong. Small. Pink. Lace. The delicate kind with scalloped edges. The expensive kind you could tell just by looking at it. The kind that came with a matching set and was bought for a specific reason - to be seen, to be admired, to be slowly removed.

I'd never owned a pink thong in my life.

Carter had told me once, early on, casual and certain the way he said most things, that pink didn't work against my skin tone. Too much contrast, he'd said, made me look washed out. I'd believed him without question. I'd cleaned out my drawer based on that opinion without thinking twice, donated perfectly good lingerie because he'd suggested it. Because I'd trusted his judgment. Because I'd wanted to be beautiful for him.

I stared at it.

The muffled sounds from the bedroom rearranged themselves in my head. Shifted into something that had a different shape than I'd given them thirty seconds ago. My brain tried desperately to hold onto the television explanation. Tried to keep it. Offered it back to me one more time like a favor, like a kindness, like a last chance to turn around and walk away without knowing.

I didn't take it.

My legs were already moving.

The balloon ribbons trailed behind me as I walked, then fell away entirely as my fist loosened without me telling it to. The bouquet scraped along the floor, petals scattering. I wasn't running. I wasn't running because some part of me understood that the moment I started running was the moment I confirmed what I already knew. And I wasn't ready to confirm it. Not yet. Not until I absolutely had to. Not until there was no other possible explanation left in the world.

My hands had gone numb. My chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped steel bands around my ribs and was slowly tightening them.

I stopped in front of the bedroom door.

The sounds on the other side weren't the television.

They weren't the television and they'd never been the television and I'd known that from the second my shoe hit that pink lace on my floor. But I'd walked here anyway because I'm the kind of woman who needs to see things to believe them. Even when believing them is going to destroy everything. Even when the truth is going to shatter the life I'd so carefully built.

I put my hand on the door handle. The metal felt cold against my palm.

Five words. The same five words cycling through my head on repeat. A prayer to no god in particular. Just thrown out into the universe and desperately hoped for, bargained for, begged for.

*Please let it be porn. Please let it be porn. Please let it be porn.*

I turned the handle. The mechanism clicked softly.

I pushed the door open.

And I saw.