The hum of the air conditioning was constant—a low, steady breath that filled the wide, glass-walled office. Afternoon light spilled in through the tall windows, reflecting off polished steel and the gleam of the city skyline beyond. The air smelled faintly of coffee and printer ink.
Alexandra sat behind her desk, posture perfect but restless, tapping the end of a silver pen against the corner of a report. Across from her, Stacy, stood with a tablet in hand.
"Have you checked their recent market strategy?" Alexandra asked, flipping through a file though her eyes didn't really see it.
"I have," Stacy said, scrolling. "You were right. That company's got teeth—strong brand, solid analytics. Uncle Mateo really outdid himself finding that one."
"Told you." Alexandra leaned back, a faint smirk tugging at her mouth. "My dad always knows where to dig for gold."
Stacy chuckled, but Alexandra's gaze had already drifted to the phone on her desk—sleek, black, and too quiet. She caught herself staring and looked away.
The silence was broken by the sharp trill of that same phone. Alexandra's hand darted to it faster than she intended. "Excuse me, Stace."
She pressed it to her ear. "Hello?"
"Hello, Ms. Brand," came a voice she recognized—the florist, polite but hesitant. "The bouquet you ordered for Ms. Samantha Kingsley... it's been returned again."
Alexandra stilled. "Returned?"
"Yes, ma'am. Same as before."
A pause. "That's the fifth time this week," she said finally, her tone even but her chest tightening. "Just... send another tomorrow. Same arrangement."
"Of course, Ms. Brand. Thank you."
"Thanks." She hung up.
For a long moment, Alexandra just sat there—the hum of the office suddenly louder than before.
Again.
The flowers she sent had come back again. All week it had been the same routine—the careful choice of blooms each morning, lilies and white roses wrapped in elegant paper, and each evening the polite message from the florist: Delivery returned. Recipient refused.
It was ridiculous, how much it hurt.
You'd think by the fifth time she'd get used to it—the quiet rejection wrapped in professionalism. But she didn't. Each return felt like a door closing. Like a reminder that Sam was not a woman easily reached.
She'd laughed once when Sam said she didn't like receiving flowers—that they were "impractical." Now she wasn't laughing.
Her fingers traced the rim of her coffee cup absently, the surface gone cold. Is this what distance feels like? she wondered. A quiet room and silence where someone used to be.
Stacy tilted her head, reading her expression. "Seems like your woman's allergic to affection," she teased, though her tone was light enough to test the air.
Alexandra gave a small huff of laughter, though it sounded tired. "Maybe she's just sticking to her rule number ten."
"Rule number ten?"
"Yeah." Alexandra leaned back, resting her elbows on the armrests. "No falling in love. No getting attached. Keep it clean, keep it professional."
Stacy arched a brow. "Sounds like someone's talking from experience."
Alexandra hesitated, then glanced toward the city below—lights flickering on one by one as evening crept closer.
"She made me sign a contract," she said softly, almost to herself. "To act as her girlfriend for a few months. It started with an accident—a coffee spill, actually—and ended with me pretending to be the woman she's dating."
A laugh escaped her, quiet and bittersweet. "I thought it would be fun. Just acting. But then I met her family, her grandmother... the people she hides behind that corporate mask. And somewhere along the line... I stopped pretending."
The room went quiet for a beat.
Stacy set down her tablet and leaned forward. "Wait... is she the same woman you told us about on the golf course? The one you said you like?"
Alexandra's cheeks warmed slightly, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips. "Yeah... that's her."
Stacy grinned knowingly. "So... you fell for your own fake girlfriend?"
Alexandra shook her head, laughing softly. "Against every single rule in her damn contract."
Her gaze returned to the city lights, reflection blurred by the glass. "She's so impossible, Stace. Always poised, always distant... but then she smiles—even just for a split second—and it's like the sun breaking through a storm." She swallowed hard. "How do you not fall for that?"
Stacy was silent for a moment, studying her. "And you keep sending her flowers she won't take."
"I just..." Alexandra exhaled slowly, her voice barely audible. "I want her to know I care. Even if she doesn't want it. Even if she doesn't care back."
"Alex," Stacy said gently, "you do realize that from her perspective, all of this still looks like part of the act? The flowers, the check-ins, the visits—it's exactly what she paid for. How can she know what's real?"
Alexandra froze. The truth in that sentence cut deeper than she expected.
Stacy went on quietly. "Maybe that's why she's pushing the flowers away. Maybe she doesn't know where your performance ends—or if it ever does."
Alexandra turned her face slightly, eyes falling to the edge of the desk. There was a wilted bouquet there—the first one she'd sent to Sam after the reunion. The petals were curling in on themselves now, pale ghosts of something once alive.
"So what do I do?" she asked softly. "Tell her the truth? Tell her that I've fallen for her?"
"Are you ready for what happens if she doesn't feel the same?"
Alexandra didn't answer right away. Her reflection in the window looked calm, controlled—nothing like how she felt inside. "No," she admitted finally. "That's why I didn't object when she extended the contract. Playing the role means I still get to stay."
Stacy sighed. "Then maybe you need to stop. Stop trying so hard. If she misses you, she'll reach out. If not..." She shrugged gently. "Then at least you'll know."
Alexandra let the words sink in. The truth was heavy, but it was honest.
"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," Stacy added softly.
"And if it doesn't?" Alexandra murmured.
"Then you'll have your answer."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The city beyond the window glowed in streaks of gold and blue—alive, moving, utterly unaware of the quiet heartbreak happening in the room above it.
Alexandra leaned back in her chair, staring at the fading light. She'd always been good at closing deals, at negotiating, at getting what she wanted. But this—this was something she couldn't control.
And as the first stars blinked into view over the skyline, she realized that maybe love wasn't something you could negotiate either.