Page 28 of The Rogue and His Flower

“So that started your obsession with fashion?”

“With colour, actually. It wasn’t so much the clothes, although they were lovely. It was the vibrancy, the patterns, the way bright colours made me feel when I was wearing them.”

“And how did they make you feel?” he asks, looking at me curiously.

“Happy,” I respond honestly. “Colour makes me happy.”

“Why?” Dalton asks.

I chew on my lip, dropping my gaze as I debate whether to tell him the truth. “It’s not really important,” I lie, knowing that I’m not ready to go there, that I may never be. Dalton might be trying to make an effort here, but I don’t trust him enough with my truth. I don’t think that I ever will.

“It’s important to me to know what makes you happy,” he counters.

“Why?”

He regards me for a moment, a frown pulling together his brows. “Because if I know what makes you happy I can earn some brownie points when I get you the perfect gift for your birthday coming up in a few months,” he eventually responds. “Got to make sure my future wife has everything she needs.”

“Right,” I reply, unable to hide my disappointment as I flick my gaze away and stare at the screen in front of us, feeling let down by his response.

Dalton seems to think that he can buy my happiness, that material possessions will somehow make up for the emotional distance between us. What he doesn’t understand is that what I truly crave is a deep bond that goes beyond expensive gifts and extravagant gestures. I would happily choose a modest life with someone I love over a lavish one full of gifts but lacking any real love and connection.

Silence expands between us, and I can feel the heat of his stare as he looks at me. “Daisy, what did I say?” he asks, reaching for me, his fingertips brushing against my arm.

“Exactly what I expected. I’m going to bed. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Dalton,” I retort, pushing upright and striding towards the door.

He rises to his feet, following me. “Daisy, talk to me,” he persists, gripping my arm.

I shake off his touch, feeling a surge of frustration and hurt bubbling within me as I turn to face him. “There’s nothing to talk about,” I reply, my voice sharp and final.

His eyes widen in surprise, clearly taken aback by my sudden change in demeanour, but despite everything I said earlier in the car, I can’t bring myself to explain why I’m reacting the way I am. How can I tell him that I love colour because I was kept locked up in a dark room for the first five years of my life? That my birth parents treated me so badly that I can’t sleep without a light on, that his comment earlier about sleeping on a dirty mattress was dangerously close to a truth that haunts me still, or that his father’s reaction to my choice of clothing shook the foundations of the carefully constructed walls I’ve built to protect myself.

“You wanted us to be open and honest, and yet here you are doing the exact opposite,” he protests. “I’m trying here.”

“Are you though?” I ask, still feeling as though this is all just his way of paying lip service to my request to communicate. I’mnot confident that he really means it, that he would actually care enough to listen and process my story, to empathise even.

“I wouldn’t be sitting here watching shitty reality TV shows if I wasn’t!” he snaps back.

“I didn’t ask you to join me,” I reply, just as heatedly.

“You said you wanted us to find some common ground,” he reminds me. “Or has that conveniently slipped your memory too?”

I heave out a sigh, feeling suddenly heavy with sadness. “Look, I don’t want to fight. I just want to go to bed.”

“You don’t want to fight?” he replies with a scoff. “I’m pretty sure that arguing with me is at the top of the list of things you like to do to piss me off.”

“This isn’t about pissing you off,” I whisper.

“Then what the hell is it? One minute we’re having a conversation, then the next you’re storming off like a goddamn child!”

“I just…”

“What, Daisy?” he prompts, scowling at me.

“I just really need to sleep. It’s been a long day.”

He stares at me, frustration evident in his eyes as he processes my words. After a tense moment, he lets out a breath, running a hand through his hair in exasperation.

“Fine,” he mutters, his tone filled with a mixture of anger and resignation.

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