Lena’s POV
The bouquet on my doorstep is the third this week—roses this time, blood-red and obnoxious, tied with a satin ribbon that screams, “I’m sorry,” in Wes’s handwriting on the little card. Miss you, baby. Let’s talk. –W. I kick it aside as I juggle my keys and takeout bag, the flowers tumbling into the hallway. My neighbor, Mrs. Delgado, peeks out, her curlers bobbing. “Another one? Mija, that boy’s persistent.”
“Persistent pest,” I mutter, slamming my door before she can launch into her soap-opera theories. The apartment smells like pad thai and exhaustion—another late night at the office, poring over campaign revisions while Sienna’s snide comments echoed in my head.
Wes is unrelenting. He keeps dropping flowers at my doorstep because I’m never home when he comes knocking, all
