Kate's POV
Damian stood in front of the monitor with his arms crossed, spine straight, those eyes—somewhere between arctic blue and gunmetal—locked on every frame of Ronald's movements.
Like a leopard with its tail pinned. Patient. But not willing.
My palms had gone slick five minutes ago. I curled my fingers into fists, nails biting into flesh, and tried to breathe like a person who wasn't falling apart.
On-screen, Ronald pulled long-stemmed red roses from their wrapping one by one, sliding each into the white ceramic vase on the kitchen counter. His movements were slow, deliberate—almost ceremonial. After every stem, he stepped back, tilted his head, and studied the arrangement like a director framing a shot.
"Maybe they're for Kate," Damon offered from beside me, his voice warm and
