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“Don’t you ever pull shit like that again, you hear me? We’ve been friends a long time, but that doesn’t mean I’ll keep putting up with it. Most of all, if it’s my sister,” Bash says.

“I won’t. Promise.”

Gemma is his world. If he can get past this, perhaps she can, too.

“If Esther causes any trouble…” Connor says.

“She won’t. Not if she knows what’s good for her.”

“My sister is going to give you hell. Are you ready for that?” Bash asks.

“He’ll have to grovel.” Brandon points his fork toward me. “The Elijah Milton down on his knees. Never thought it was possible.”

“I’ll do anything.” Never begged for anything in my life, but for Gemma, I’ll throw my pride aside and plead forever.

“You better mean that.” Sebastian picks up his whiskey again.

Gemma is the one I choose. I’ll always choose. I chose her the moment I introduced her to my father.

She needs time, but... fuck, how am I supposed to sit here and do nothing?

Chapter 21

The doorbell startles me from my sketching on the couch. I glance at the clock. Is it afternoon already? Since we came back from Elijah yesterday, I haven’t been able to keep track of time. Through the peephole, I spy a delivery man clutching an extravagant bouquet of flowers.

As I open the door, the vibrant colors and sweet fragrance invade my senses. “Yes?”

The delivery guy eyes me curiously, his grip on the flowers tightening. “Delivery for Gemma Barron.”

I nod, my pulse quickening as I catch sight of the card nestled among the petals.

I’m sorry. Please let us talk. Love, Elijah.

Love? Is that a joke?

The flowers are beautiful.

I fold my arms across my chest. “I don’t want them.”

Lil peeks over my shoulder, gasping. I’m too late to stop her as she swoops in and grabs the flowers from the delivery man’s hands. “Thank you! Have a nice day.”

“Seriously?” I slam the door shut.

Lil shrugs, walking around our living room and trying out different places. After the third one, she leaves them and turns to me. “Aren’t they lovely?”

Yes. “No.” I grit my teeth.

“But Gem—”

“I don’t want them.” I hate him.

A few hours later, the doorbell rings again. Another bouquet.

Lil lines the windowsill with bouquet after bouquet, creating an extravagant garden of remorse. Each delivery is like a nail sinking deeper into my resolve not to reach out.

My phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with another text from the former ‘Mr. Answer Me’ now named ‘Mr. Asshole’. Yes, I didn’t block his number.

My fingers curl into fists, nails biting into palms. I won’t give in. I can’t.

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