Chapter two:Rules and Boundaries
1273 Words
Xander Blackwood did not dream.
Sleep, for him, was a function—necessary, efficient, emotionless. He closed his eyes, rested his body, and woke up ready to work. No memories. No ghosts.
So when he woke up with the image of a flower shop burned into his mind, irritation settled deep in his chest.
White roses.
Green stems.
Calm brown eyes that didn’t look away.
He sat up in bed, jaw tightening.
Ridiculous.
Xander swung his legs off the mattress and moved through his penthouse with practiced efficiency. The city outside was already awake, lights flickering, traffic humming. Life moved forward, indifferent as always.
That was how it should be.
By the time he arrived at Blackwood Holdings, his mood had stabilized. Meetings filled the morning—numbers, projections, acquisitions. He dominated the boardroom the way he dominated everything else: quietly, decisively.
No wasted words.
No unnecessary emotion.
“Mr. Blackwood,” one of the board members said carefully, “about the Monroe Development contract—”
“Rejected,” Xander interrupted without looking up. “Next.”
The man hesitated. “Sir, it’s a promising—”
“I said rejected,” Xander repeated, finally lifting his gaze. The room fell silent.
No one argued with him twice.
When the meeting ended, Xander returned to his office, loosening his cufflinks slightly. He poured himself coffee he didn’t need and stared at the city again.
And then—against his will—his mind drifted.
Petals & Thorns.
He didn’t even know why he remembered the name. He shouldn’t have noticed it. Shouldn’t have remembered her face, or the way she hadn’t smiled too much, or how she spoke to him like he was just another man.
That was the problem.
She hadn’t treated him like Xander Blackwood.
He pressed his lips into a thin line.
Curiosity was dangerous.
⸻
Ivy Monroe believed in routines.
They kept her grounded. Kept her moving forward instead of dwelling on things she couldn’t change—like failed relationships, unpaid bills, or the fact that sometimes, loneliness crept in quietly at night.
She opened her shop at exactly eight-thirty every morning.
She watered the plants.
She arranged the front display.
She brewed coffee strong enough to wake the dead.
By nine, Petals & Thorns felt alive.
She didn’t expect to see him again.
So when the bell chimed and a familiar presence filled the shop, her hands stilled mid-arrangement.
Xander Blackwood stood there, dressed in another dark suit, expression unreadable.
Her heart skipped—once. Just once.
Then she steadied herself.
“Good morning,” she said, keeping her tone neutral.
His eyes flicked to her face, sharp and assessing. “I need something else.”
“For another funeral?” she asked softly.
“No,” he said. “For an event.”
She nodded. “What kind?”
“A corporate dinner.”
That surprised her.
She gestured toward the counter. “Any preferences?”
“Minimal. Clean. No bright colors.”
She hid a smile. “You don’t like color?”
“I don’t see the point of it.”
Ivy raised an eyebrow but said nothing as she began selecting flowers. White orchids. Dark greenery. Clean lines.
“You’re back early,” she said casually.
“I don’t usually repeat businesses,” he replied.
“And yet,” she said lightly, “here you are.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger—interest.
She noticed it.
She hated that she noticed it.
When she finished the arrangement, she set it on the counter. “This should work.”
He studied it. “You didn’t ask how many tables.”
“You have a long table,” she said. “Formal. Controlled. You don’t like clutter.”
Silence stretched.
“How do you know that?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Educated guess.”
Xander didn’t like being read.
He paid and turned to leave, then stopped. “You shouldn’t make assumptions about people.”
Ivy met his gaze calmly. “Neither should you.”
That caught him off guard.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“Keep your boundaries,” he said finally. “People misunderstand familiarity.”
Her chin lifted. “I’m not familiar with you, Mr. Blackwood.”
His mouth curved into something almost like a smile. Almost.
“Good,” he said. “Then let’s keep it that way.”
And yet, he didn’t leave immediately.
“Thank you for the flowers,” he added.
She watched him walk out, heart beating faster than she liked.
⸻
Xander told himself it was coincidence.
That’s what he told himself the third time he found himself outside her shop within the same week.
This time, he didn’t go in.
He stood across the street, phone pressed to his ear as his grandfather’s lawyer spoke about estate matters. His gaze drifted, unbidden, to the glass window.
She was laughing with a customer.
The sound didn’t reach him—but he imagined it anyway.
Sharp. Real. Uncontrolled.
He frowned.
That night, he visited his grandfather’s old study. Dust coated the shelves. Memories pressed in from every corner.
“You’re losing focus,” Theodore’s voice echoed in his mind.
Xander exhaled slowly.
“No,” he muttered. “I’m not.”
But something had shifted.
And he didn’t like it.
⸻
Ivy felt it too—the shift.
She found herself glancing at the door more often. Listening for the bell. Wondering if he would come back.
She hated herself for it.
Men like him didn’t belong in her life. She’d learned that lesson already—power and control always came with consequences.
Still, when she locked up that evening and stepped into the cool night air, she felt eyes on her.
A black car idled at the curb.
The window rolled down.
“Get in,” Xander said.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
“Excuse me?”
“I need to talk,” he said. “Five minutes.”
She crossed her arms. “That’s not how conversations work.”
His jaw tightened. “I don’t ask twice.”
She laughed softly. “Then you’ll be disappointed.”
Something flickered in his eyes—respect? Frustration?
He opened the door and stepped out instead.
“Five minutes,” he repeated. “In public. If that makes you feel safer.”
She hesitated. Then nodded. “Fine.”
They stood under a streetlight, silence heavy between them.
“You don’t trust women,” she said suddenly.
His eyes snapped to her. “What?”
“You act like every interaction is a threat,” she continued calmly. “Like you’re waiting to be betrayed.”
“That’s not your concern.”
“No,” she agreed. “But it explains a lot.”
“Stop psychoanalyzing me.”
“Then stop giving people reasons to.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Finally, he spoke. “Stay away from me.”
She blinked. “I didn’t realize I was close.”
“You are,” he said quietly. “And that’s the problem.”
He stepped back, retreating toward the car.
“Goodnight, Ivy Monroe.”
Her breath caught.
“You looked at the receipt,” she said.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I always do.”
The car pulled away, leaving her standing there with a racing heart and far too many questions.
⸻
That night, Xander stared at the ceiling, fists clenched.
He had warned her.
And yet, for the first time in years, he wasn’t sure who he was trying to protect—her, or himself.
- Writer
