Page 6 of The Rogue and His Flower

“Fuck the right time. I’m coming.”

“You come here now and we’ll have an even bigger problem, Dalton,” Drix warns. “You’ll only upset her more. I said no. I mean it. Give her some space.”

“She’s my fiance, Drix. I’m coming,” I bite back.

“Don’t fucking remind me,” he grinds out.

I ignore his remark, anger rising up my chest. “Whether you like it or not, in a matter of weeks she’ll be my wife. I’m responsible for her as much as you are.”

“And I’m herbrother. She doesn’t want you here.”

“She said that?” I ask.

“What are you going to do, haul her into your arms and tell her you love her, that she’s safe with you?” he retorts, ignoring my question.

I pause, hating the accusation in his voice, the loathing. “She needs to know I care.”

“Do you though?”

“Fuck, Drix, what do you want from me? I’m trying my best here.”

“What I want is for you to tear up that damn contract, Dalton. What I want is for my sister to find a man who wants to marry her because he fuckinglovesher,” he hisses out.

“We’ve been over this. The contract is signed, it’s done. There’s no going back, and what’s more you’re free from your debt, Drix. As much as I hate the fact that the bastard hurt Lia, you’re free of him now too. You can be happy.”

“This conversation is over. Don’t come,” Drix replies, ending the call.

“Fuck!” I shout, throwing my phone across the room. It lands on the bed, bouncing a couple of times before falling still.

Swiping my fingers through my hair, I consider my options. I could go to the hospital against my best friend’s wishes, but then what? Drix is right, what possible comfort would I be to Daisy, to him? Neither of them want me there, and with good reason.

Jesus fuck, last night I went to bed determined to make Daisy mine even when she’s made it very clear that she hates my guts. That’s the kind of man I am. One who’s willing to hurt a woman who’s sweet and thoughtful, loyal and trusting, just to appease his own fucking ego.

Even now, even knowing all of that, Istillwant to make her mine. This sick, twisted part of me needs to claim her despite everything, just to prove that I can. It’s fucked-up.I’mfucked-up.

I can’t change, not to save my friendship, not to stop myself from hurting Daisy, not even to prevent hurting myself, because if there’s anything I know about myself, it’s this: I’m my father’s son. What I want, I get, and damn the consequences.

With that thought in mind, I stride across the room and pick up my phone, flicking through my contacts until I find the number I need. Pressing call, I wait impatiently for someone to pick up.

“Smithson’s Jewellery, how may I assist you?” a crisp, male voice greets me.

“It’s Dalton Gunn, clear the store for me. I’m coming right now to pick out a very expensive, very sizable engagement ring. No expenses spared.”

CHAPTER THREE

DAISY

Dragging in a deep, calming breath, I shrug off my pink woollen coat and hand it to the hostess. Her perfectly manicured nails graze the buttons of my coat as she takes it from me, her eyes narrowing in disapproval at the bold colours of the outfit I'm wearing underneath. The green and blue stripes of my palazzo trousers clash purposefully with my cerise pink shirt and heeled pumps, whilst my bright cherry lipstick adds another splash of colour.

In contrast, the hostess wears a demure black pencil skirt and starched white shirt, her hair slicked back in a low bun. She exudes elegance and sophistication, just like the private members club 'M' that I have entered. The name itself is obnoxious–it means 'ten million' in Roman numerals–and you can only join if you haveat leastten million pounds in your bank account. The added horizontal line above the M indicates the multiple millions youmusthave.

“Mr Gunn is waiting for you in the lounge,” the hostess says, hanging my coat in a closet behind her and pointing the way.

"Thank you," I reply, smiling politely, unfazed by her disapproving look as I glide past her, my heels clicking against the polished wooden floor.

The lounge itself is bathed in a soft golden light, casting a warm glow over the antique furniture and black velvet armchairs. Other members are quietly talking, enjoying the gentle melody from the pianist as he plays, their conversation interrupted by my entrance. No doubt my colourful outfit upset the muted tones of this terribly stuffy, and frankly, dull establishment. I’m not unaccustomed to this private members’ club, after all my father was once a member, but I’ve never felt truly comfortable here. There are too many judgmental people here who think that wealth gives them the right to be rude, and happiness only comes in the form of a bank balance in the millions.

Ignoring their stares and the whispers that follow me, I make my way across the room to where Dalton is seated in a secluded corner, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. Almost immediately, his sharp eyes meet mine as I approach, a hint of surprise flashing across his face as he takes in my choice of outfit, before schooling his features. I can see the questions forming in his eyes, the judgement lurking behind his tight smile. But I'm not here to conform to his expectations or anyone else's for that matter. I'm here out of obligation, and I refuse to be anything other than my authentic self.

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