Chapter Six Roses Don’t Cost This Much
1361 Words
~ Harley ~
The roses are still alive.
Of course they are.
Perfect. Upright. Mocking me from the dining room table like they pay rent here.
My Aunt Darla moved them into three separate vases because there were too many for one. She keeps pretending she isn’t curious. I keep pretending I’m not unraveling.
It’s Sunday night. Valentine’s Day tomorrow.
The chocolate sits unopened on my dresser. Imported. Expensive. The kind Finn would’ve taken a picture of before eating, just to prove he “deserved” it.
I haven’t touched it.
I don’t want sugar.
I want answers.
I pick up one of the roses and drag my thumb over a thorn until it bites. Just enough to sting. Just enough to feel something sharp and real.
“These Roses shouldn’t cost that much,” I mutter.
I look up their price tag online and was shocked a bouquet of these could cover our rent for a month.
And these are dozens.
And these were delivered twice in one week with no signature.
This isn’t random. It’s targeted.
And there’s only one man who makes my stomach flutter like this.
The club flashes in my head. Low lights. Whiskey burn. His eyes on me like I wasn’t a child throwing a tantrum, but a storm he intended to walk into.
I didn’t give him my name.
I didn’t give him my number.
But I paid with a card that night.
The realization lands slow.
He didn’t need to ask.
My pulse starts pounding.
He could’ve looked.
He could’ve found me.
He could’ve known exactly who I was the moment I walked into that club.
And that thought does something dangerous inside my chest.
Not fear exactly.
I grab my jacket.
I’m done pacing.
If he wants to play silent benefactor, fine. I’ll drag him into daylight.
The club looks different in the afternoon. Less seductive. More business.
Black exterior. Tinted windows. Discreet sign.
Untouchable.
I push through the doors.
Music play’s low. Staff moves with purpose. It’s not crowded yet, but it’s alive. Controlled chaos, polished and expensive.
A man near the bar notices me immediately.
Tall. Dark. Watchful.
He doesn’t smile.
“Elijah Calder,” he says before I can speak, like he already knows why I’m here. His voice is smooth but edged.
I freeze for half a second.
“You work here?” I ask.
He studies me like I’m a math problem he already solved.
“I do,” I keep things in check around here he replies. “Can I help you?”
I swallow my pride.
“I’m looking for someone.”
He doesn’t ask who.
His gaze flicks to the roses tattooed faintly along my wrist. Then back to my face.
“You usually find who you’re looking for,” he says carefully. “Or they find you.”
My jaw tightens. “Is he here?”
Elijah doesn’t move.
“Mr. Valentine isn’t available now he’s on his way.” But you can Call him Quinn he’s been expecting you.
The name hits like a match to gasoline.
Valentine.
Of course.
Of course his name would be Valentine.
My stomach drops and flips at the same time.
“Tell him Harley Sinclair is done being anonymous,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “And if he’s going to spend money like that, he can at least grow a spine and say it to my face.”
Silence stretches.
Elijah’s expression shifts just slightly. Interest. Not surprise.
“He’ll be informed,” he says.
“That’s not what I asked.”
His eyes sharpen. Not hostile. Measuring.
“You don’t strike me as someone who likes waiting,” he says.
“I don’t.”
A moment passes.
Then, from somewhere deeper in the club, a door opens.
I don’t see him at first.
I feel him.
The air changes. Like the room just remembered who owns it.
Footsteps. Slow. Controlled.
My body straightens on instinct.
And then I see him.
Quinn Valentine.
Early forties. Calm. Tailored black shirt like it was stitched onto him. Eyes that don’t rush.
He looks exactly the same.
Which is unfair.
Because I do not feel the same.
His gaze lands on me and doesn’t flicker.
Like he Recognized me and see’s me as his Possession.
“Harley,” he says, like he’s been saying it in his head for years.
The way he says my name does something reckless to my heartbeat.
I don’t smile.
I don’t step back.
“You don’t buy me like that,” I say.
No greeting. No softness.
His eyes darken, but his voice stays even. “I didn’t buy you.”
“Those roses cost more than my aunt’s rent.”
“And?”
“And you don’t get to just drop things into my life like that. Not without a conversation.”
A flicker of something almost amused crosses his face.
“I wasn’t aware you needed permission to receive flowers.”
My hands curl into fists.
“This isn’t about flowers.”
“No,” he agrees quietly. “It isn’t.”
The room feels smaller.
Elijah is gone. Or pretending not to exist. The staff keeps moving like this isn’t happening.
Quinn steps closer.
Not touching.
Never touching first.
“Say what you came to say,” he tells me.
“You don’t get to act like that night was yours to revisit whenever you feel like it.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“That night wasn’t mine,” he says. “It was ours.”
The correction hits.
I hate that it does.
“You left,” I fire back.
“Yes.”
“No note. No number. Nothing.”
“You didn’t ask.”
The calm in his voice is infuriating.
“You think that means you get to track me down and send” I gesture vaguely. “a small country’s GDP worth of roses?”
His eyes drop to my mouth for half a second before returning to my eyes.
“I think,” he says slowly, “that I don’t do meaningless.”
The words land heavy.
I stare at him, searching for a crack. A joke. A lie.
There isn’t one.
“You don’t even know me,” I whisper.
A pause.
“I know enough.”
Something about that answer makes my heart skip.
“That’s not romantic,” I say.
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
Silence coils between us.
“What do you want?” I ask finally.
His gaze doesn’t waver.
“You,” he says simply.
No hesitation.No performance.
Just fact.
Heat climbs my neck despite myself.
“I’m not something you decide to have.”
“No,” he agrees again. “You’re something I choose.”
That’s worse.
My heart is beating too fast. My anger is still there, but it’s tangled now. Complicated.
“You don’t get to choose alone,” I say.
His eyes soften just barely.
“Then don’t let me.”
The challenge hangs there.
Not dominance.Invitation.
My breath feels unsteady.
I should walk out.
I should slam the door and leave him with his expensive gestures and controlled voice.
Instead, I step closer.
Close enough to feel his warmth.
“You don’t buy me,” I repeat quietly.
His hand lifts slowly.
Not to grab.
To tilt my chin up with two fingers.
It felt Electric.Controlled. Familiar. Like the night we met.
“I don’t buy what I intend to keep,” Quinn Valentine says softly. “I invest.”
My stomach flips violently.
“This isn’t an investment opportunity,” I whisper.
His thumb brushes once against my jaw. Barely there.
“Everything valuable is.”
My breath stutters.
The tension between us is thicker than the music. He’s not forcing. Not pushing. Just standing there like gravity, waiting to see if I fall.
I swallow.
“You don’t get to assume I’ll fall for this.”
His eyes darken, voice dropping.
“I’m not assuming anything, Harley.”
His fingers slide away.
“But you came back.” He whispers
And that’s the worst part.
He’s right.
- Writer
