CHAPTER 16

Zayn's POV — A Few Hours Earlier

The morning sky was pale, dusted with soft clouds that stretched across the city skyline like sleep still lingering in the air. Zayn sat in the backseat of the sleek black car, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers drumming lightly against the polished leather armrest. Eliot, his assistant and driver, glanced at him through the rearview mirror but said nothing.

Zayn had been silent the whole morning. Not the usual kind of silence that wrapped around his cold exterior like armor, but something different. Restless.

He stared outside the tinted window, eyes distant, as the car slowly rolled past blocks of buildings—some freshly painted, others weathered by time and exhaustion. His jaw clenched slightly when they passed the usual route toward his office, a mundane procession he'd memorized. Nothing sparked interest.

"Eliot," Zayn said suddenly, voice low but clear.

"Yes, sir?"

"Take a different route. This one is… suffocating."

Eliot blinked, then nodded. "Understood."

The car turned onto a quieter, older street. A narrow road lined with independent shops, corner cafes, and fading murals on brick walls. Zayn didn't know why he'd asked for the change. It wasn't like him to divert from routine—but something inside urged him, a small nudge he couldn't explain.

And then he saw it.

Nestled between an antique bookstore and a closed tailor's shop was a quaint little floral store. Neno's Bloom & Stem was written in delicate cursive on the signage, flanked by ivy vines and faded roses climbing the wooden frame of the door.

His breath caught.

The storefront wasn't extraordinary, not by any real standard, but something about it tugged at him. Like a half-forgotten dream pulling from the edges of his memory."Stop the car," Zayn said sharply.

Eliot glanced back. "Sir?"

"Stop. Now."

The brakes hissed gently, and before Eliot could ask more, Zayn had already opened the door. His Italian loafers crunched softly against the pavement. He stood still for a moment, hands in the pockets of his charcoal coat, just staring at the store.

His heart was… off rhythm.

What is this feeling?

The bell above the shop's door jingled faintly as he stepped inside.

The warmth of the room hit him first—scented with jasmine, damp earth, and sunlit petals. It was cozy. Intimate. A little cluttered. Flowers of all kinds were arranged in vases along wooden tables. Ribbons spilled from drawers. A radio played soft instrumental music from somewhere in the back.

And then he saw her.

A woman was helping a couple with a vase. Her back was turned, but her posture… her presence… made something in him stir. She looked calm, maybe a little tired. But graceful. There was something about the way she moved—gentle, almost maternal.

As the couple left, she walked them to the door with a kind smile. That was when Zayn noticed something shift.

Another man—leaning against the doorframe—slipped in behind them. His smile was too wide, too slow. The way his eyes lingered on her wasn't right.

Zayn stepped farther into the store, silent, watching.

The man said something that made her laugh nervously. She tried to hand him the bouquet, but he didn't take it. Instead, he reached for her hand. She pulled back slightly, but he grabbed it again.

Zayn's fists clenched.

No.The man said something else—low, sleazy. She looked uncomfortable now. Still polite, but trying to free herself.

Zayn's eyes narrowed. His body moved before his thoughts could catch up.

In two quick strides, he was beside them. He grabbed the man's collar and yanked him back with such force the man stumbled into a display, knocking over a jar of ribbons.

"Who the—?"

Zayn didn't hesitate. His palm connected with the man's cheek—hard. The sound cracked through the floral shop like a whip.

"Eliot," Zayn said coldly, not even looking behind him.

The door opened instantly.

"Remove him. He reeks."

The man tried to protest, but Eliot grabbed him without a word and dragged him out. The woman stood frozen, her hand still halfway extended, her chest rising and falling a little too quickly.

Zayn turned to her.

And for the first time… their eyes met.

Time. Froze.

She blinked slowly. Her lips parted just a little, as if she wanted to speak but couldn't find the words. And then, something astonishing happened.

She hugged him.

Not just a thank-you touch. Not a polite pat.

A full embrace. Arms wrapped tightly around his waist, cheek pressed into his chest.

Zayn… froze.

His heart beat so loudly he was certain she could hear it. Something fluttered deep inside him, foreign and terrifying. His hand hovered in the air as if afraid to touch her—but then, slowly, it landed gently on her back.

He didn't understand what this was.

She pulled away suddenly, flustered. Her cheeks were flushed. "I—I'm so sorry. I don't know why I just did that," she said, voice trembling but kind. "It's just… you saved me, and I—thank you."

Zayn studied her face. She looked familiar, but not in any way he could explain.

She glanced down at the floor. "I feel like I've seen you before. But I can't remember when…"

"You haven't," Zayn said, but even as the words left his mouth, he wasn't sure if they were true.

"What can I offer you?" she asked, regaining composure. "Please… anything in the shop is yours."

Zayn's eyes flicked to the flowers.

He pointed at a small, simple rose on the counter. It was delicate. Blush pink. Unassuming.She picked it up and held it out to him.

He reached into his pocket.

"No," she said quickly. "You don't have to pay. Consider it a thank-you."

Zayn hesitated, then nodded. Their fingers brushed as he took the rose. The contact made something inside him jolt. Again.

"Sir," Eliot returned, brushing his coat. "Your meeting."

Zayn glanced one last time at the woman.

He nodded once. "Thank you… Miss…"

She opened her mouth to respond, but he was already at the door.

Back in the car, Zayn stared at the rose in his hand. Its scent filled the enclosed space. He didn't speak.

"Everything alright, sir?" Eliot asked.

Zayn didn't answer.He placed the rose on the seat beside him like it was something precious. Something rare. And as they drove off, he found himself looking back at the small shop through the window—wishing he had asked her name.