C17 - Dahlias

The morning sky painted a half-past-six palette as I emerged from the shower, choosing a slightly thicker black turtleneck, complemented by loose, dark blue trousers and a long grey coat. My feet found solace in white sneakers, and my familiar watch adorned my wrist. On a whim, I slung a black tote bag over my shoulder—just in case.

Navigating the foyer, I confirmed the time. The doorbell chimed. A glance at my phone —7:20 AM. Wasn't he early?

Suppressing the tangle of thoughts threatening to form, I opened the door. And for a brief moment, everything in my mind went still.

Lucian stood before me, his presence effortlessly commanding, as if the morning chill dared not touch him. He made looking impeccable seem unfairly easy, as though exclusivity was stitched into his very being.

"Good morning."

His voice was smooth, steady—unhurried.

"You're early," I remarked, attempting normalcy, despite the way he looked at me—like I was something, if not someone, worth waiting for.

His expression remained composed. "I didn't want to wait."

Something in my stomach tightened.

Clearing my throat, I shifted my gaze. "Did you have breakfast?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he took a step forward, quiet and deliberate. Instinctively, I retreated—only for my movement to still as he extended a bouquet of dahlias.

"These are for you."

I blinked. First at the flowers. Then at him. My mind lagged, struggling to process the gesture, the weight of its meaning.

"…Dahlias?" My voice barely registered above a murmur.

His gaze softened—just a fraction, but enough to send cracks through my composure.

"I want to know you."

Heat surged to my ears. The scent of dahlias lingered in the space between us, weaving a delicate tension. For a moment, I could do nothing but stand there, caught in the gravity of his words.

The silence stretched, threatening to swallow me whole. I grasped for an escape.

"Would you like to come in?"

Lucian stepped inside, toeing off his shoes with effortless grace. His presence filled my space too easily, as if it had always belonged there. In the kitchen, I busied myself, searching for a vase with more urgency than necessary.

"Make yourself comfortable," I said, forcing casualness. "Would you like something to drink? Coffee or tea?"

I felt his gaze settle on me—heavy, consuming. My fingers fumbled as I finally settled for a tall glass, filling it with water before placing the flowers inside.

Turning around in relief, I nearly collided with him.

Lucian stood inches away. Close enough for me to catch the faint woodsy-lavender scent clinging to him. Close enough for warmth to radiate between us.

"Do you like them?"

His voice was lower now—intimate, as if meant only for me.

I swallowed, taking an automatic step back. "You didn't answer my question."

"I have plans for that."

His response made no immediate sense, yet a shiver trailed down my spine. I tilted my head, the smallest movement—only to realize too late how close he had leaned in.

The space between us evaporated.

Panic kicked in. I needed distance. Air. Now.

Without thinking, I turned on my heel, walking—no, escaping—toward the door. Shoes. Where were my shoes? I slipped them on in record time.

Lucian's presence followed.

I reached for the handle—only for his hand to settle over mine. Large. Warm. Gentle.

I froze.

His other arm brushed around my waist, pulling me just enough that I could feel his breath against my ear.

"It's a date."

My heart stopped.

A date?

Before I could react—push him away, demand an explanation, anything—he let go, walking past me like nothing had happened.

As if he hadn't just turned my entire morning upside down.

The door swung open. "Are you coming?"

Still dazed, I followed him to the elevator. Silence stretched between us, thick and unrelenting. My mind replayed the past five minutes on loop. I bit my lip, praying the heat on my ears wasn't obvious.

The elevator doors opened to the parking lot. On instinct, I turned toward my car—only for his hand to catch my wrist.

Lucian's grip was firm, effortless. Decisive.

"My car."

There was no room for negotiation in his tone.

I barely had a second to process before I found myself standing in front of a matte black Ferrari SF90.

I let out a slow breath, pursing my lips.

Wasn't this just contract signing?