When I was seven, an assassin gave me a white gardenia.

That day, he watched me take the flower, then right in front of me, he pierced my mother's heart with a poisoned dagger. Afterward, he vanished into the night like a ghost.

From then on, white gardenias became my nightmare.

So on my wedding day, I told my husband, Nikolai Volkov, "If you ever decide this is over, just destroy our symbol."

Nikolai said nothing, only pulled me into a tight embrace.

From then on, white gardenias became his taboo as well.

In the fifth year of our marriage, Katarina Petrova, the daughter of an allied family, deliberately knocked over a prized gardenia plant he was cultivating for me in his study.

That same day, Nikolai nearly shattered Katarina's hand and forbade her from ever setting foot in our home again.

That day, I truly believed he was my destined salvation.

Six months later, I flew back from overseas, having just secured control of the "Free Port" for the family—a deal significant enough to reshape the entire New York underworld.

At the celebration party, Nikolai handed me a glass of vodka.

After I had drunk half of it, that so-called ally's daughter, the woman who was supposed to have been exiled, stood smiling behind me and traced her fingertips along his arm. "That gardenia," she asked, "does it still hurt?"

I stared at Nikolai in disbelief as he struggled to hold back a laugh.

"Don't be angry. Katarina insisted I play a little joke on you. I didn't really betray you; I just had a tattoo removed. But I think she has a point. You get so worked up over a flower. See? It’s not that serious."

My expression turned to ice. I flung the rest of the vodka onto the mangled skin of his arm, then turned and strode away.

Some things can never be a joke.

I would never joke about white gardenias, nor would I joke about loyalty and betrayal.

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1

"Ms. Donnelly, what you experienced was a PTSD episode, triggered by severe psychological distress. You can't risk another trigger like that. Next time, it might not just be a breakdown; we might have to sedate you. I want you to stay for observation overnight. Please, contact your family as soon as you can."

The words from our family doctor left me speechless.

I had spent 39 consecutive days overseas, battling at sunless negotiation tables for the "Free Port" project, only to return with a hard-won victory. I never imagined a so-called joke from Nikolai Volkov at our celebration party would land me in a hospital bed.

On instinct, I opened our pinned chat and started to type, but then I froze. Something was wrong.

I looked closer. It was definitely Nikolai's profile.

He had just changed his social media background. Now, it was a field of blooming black orchids.

Just as I was staring blankly at the chat window, Nikolai's call came through. His tone was cold.

"I'm home. Where are you sulking?"

I said nothing.

Ordinarily, I would have already been pleading for him to come get me. But tonight, I was at a loss for words.

Nikolai's voice crackled with impatience. "Rowan, how long are you going to keep up this act?"

"I'm at the clinic."

Nikolai fell silent. He never cared much about my health.

He would never guess that the blurry remnant of a tattoo on his arm would send me straight to the emergency room.

"Stay put. I'm on my way."

I didn't want to deal with him, but my body felt too heavy to move.

Time ticked by. The doctor checked on me three times, but Nikolai never appeared.

Just before I drifted off, I glanced at my phone one last time and saw a new post from Katarina Petrova.

[Every time I get hurt, my knight appears. I'm so lucky!]

The accompanying picture showed Nikolai holding her hand. On Katarina's wrist was a brand-new black orchid tattoo.

It was beautiful, but the sight of it made me sick.

I had known Nikolai for ten years; he always knew exactly where my boundaries were.

As a family heir, he also knew how to maintain a lethal distance from other women.

But now, he had crossed that line again and again.

In that case, our marriage was over. And the Free Port I’d just secured for his family? It was as good as gone.

That port could have cemented the Volkov family's dominance for a century. But now, none of that mattered.

When I woke up the next morning, there were no messages, no missed calls from Nikolai.

I wasn't even angry anymore.

After an examination confirmed my mental state was stable, I went straight home—the penthouse overlooking Central Park that Nikolai and I had bought last year.

Seven years ago, when we first got together, we were crammed into a windowless Brooklyn basement, sharing a piece of moldy bread.

Five years ago, when we married in secret, we exchanged vows in a corner church with no guests and no rings.

Now, I stood alone in this vast, opulent house, licking my wounds.

I would have to get used to it.

I was reviewing the divorce papers from my lawyer when Nikolai finally came home.

He brought with him the heavy scent of tuberose. It was so strong it made my eyes water.

Nikolai was a notorious mysophobe who abhorred all artificial fragrances, especially perfume.

Because of him, in all our years together, I never used anything scented, not even soap.

As it turned out, those rules only applied to me.

He froze when he saw me on the sofa, an encrypted tablet in my hands.

"Katarina was a little unstable while getting her tattoo, so I had to calm her down. It got late, and since her place is on the other side of town, I just stayed over. I didn't have time to come get you."

I nodded, terminating another cooperation agreement with the Volkov family on my tablet. "Okay," I replied casually. "Got it."

Nikolai opened his mouth, but for a moment, he was at a loss for words.

My reaction clearly wasn't what he expected.

After a moment's hesitation, he stepped closer, his gaze dropping to the tablet.

"It's Saturday; you shouldn't be working. I was planning on taking Katarina to the villa at Lake Como. Do you want to come with us?"

Seven years ago, on my birthday, Nikolai and I took a photo at that villa, the sparkling water of Lake Como behind us.

He had promised that once he became the family's Don, he would take me back to retake our photo in that exact spot, as his wife.

Later, as our territory grew and our business flourished, he only got busier. He would always placate me in his low, husky voice.

"Rowan, this is a critical time for the family's expansion. As the future Don, I can't just leave New York whenever I want. You're the most understanding woman I know. You get it, don't you?"

I did get it.

So I stopped mentioning Lake Como and threw myself into clearing his path to power.

But when Katarina wanted to go, he somehow found the time.

I opened the next encrypted email and replied in the same flat tone, "Three's a crowd. I'm not interested."

For some reason, he let out a quiet sigh of relief.

"Alright. I just came back to grab a few things. You'll have to have lunch by yourself. We'll have dinner together tonight."

"Also, this 'Free Port' is the key to our control of New York. I've already invited all our allies to a celebration gala on Monday. You've always wanted to stand by my side in public, haven't you? Monday is your chance. Are you ready?"

Nikolai trailed off, then looked at me seriously.

"Don't worry, I'll formally introduce you this time. I won't let Katarina cause any more trouble."

I looked up and met his gaze calmly. I knew this was his clumsy attempt to make up for the other night.

This suited me perfectly. The transfer of control for the Free Port would take a few days to process, anyway.

The gala would be the perfect stage for my announcement.

That evening, as usual, I arrived at the restaurant early to wait for him.

After a decade with him, it was pure habit.

While waiting, I received an encrypted call.

It was Marco Carbone, the Don of the Carbone family. He was also an old friend from college.

Marco's tone was lighthearted. "Rowan," he chuckled, "have you reconsidered my proposal? I want you on my team. The Volkov family is too small to contain a talent like yours."

This was the third time he had tried to poach me.

The first time was seven years ago. I had just turned down a high-paying Wall Street job to join Nikolai's fledgling organization—a crew with nothing, one that could be wiped out by rivals at any moment.

My salary, which was symbolic at best, was poured back into building our shared future.

Marco had argued with me until he was blue in the face, but I wouldn't be swayed.

The second time was a few days ago, across a negotiation table where I, representing the Volkov family, had backed him into a corner.

At the end, he'd said to me, half in admiration and half in warning, "Rowan, I hear you have no official title with the Volkovs and live on a small allowance. Come work for me. Don't waste your talent on a fool who doesn't appreciate it."

I smiled and declined. How could my talent be wasted?

That was Nikolai's family. It was the empire we had spent seven years building together.

Now, he was trying for the third time.

I hesitated for only three seconds. Then, I signaled the waiter for a bottle of aged whiskey and accepted his offer.

"Send me the address. I'll be there next Tuesday."

Marco was stunned silent for a beat, then burst into an ecstatic laugh.

He practically shouted, "That's great!" and hung up, as if terrified I'd change my mind.

I was smiling as I lowered my phone, but then a notification popped up.

It was from Nikolai.

[Change of plans. Katarina couldn't wait, so I'm taking her on the earliest flight out. Have dinner by yourself. I'll bring you back a surprise.]

A moment later, Katarina posted on social media, the visibility set only for me.

[Thank you to my knight for making my dream come true. Tomorrow, I'm going to prepare a grand meal for him as a reward!]

The accompanying picture was of Katarina clinging to Nikolai's arm on the balcony of the Lake Como villa.

The pose was identical to the one in our photo from seven years ago.

I stared at the image for two seconds, then calmly opened my chat with Marco.

[I'll be bringing a joining gift. How would you like control of the entire 'Free Port'?]

My phone was silent for a moment. Then it started vibrating frantically.

[YES! YES! YES! You're a miracle! It was your birthday yesterday, right? The gift I sent should have arrived. Don't forget to pick it up!]

I froze. A small laugh escaped me, growing louder and louder.

Right. Yesterday was my birthday.

When Nikolai showed me that blurry scar on his arm, had he remembered the date?

Lying alone in that clinic bed while he was off comforting another woman... did it ever once cross his mind to buy a gift for his wife of five years?

Probably not.

But it didn't matter anymore. We were done.

Who would want a birthday gift from a soon-to-be ex-husband, anyway?

After dinner, I didn't rest. I threw myself into preparing the transfer documents for the Free Port.