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I'm fastening my watch when I think of the flowers. Not roses. Anything that obvious would be too much this morning. I remember the white lilies she used to buy for herself when we were together, usually Casablanca lilies when she could find them. She once told me she liked the way they made a room smell expensive without trying too hard, and I remember laughing at the description. Apparently, I remember more than I thought.

I call my executive assistant before leaving the bedroom.

"Good morning, Ross," she says when she answers.

"Good morning," I reply.

"I need flowers delivered this morning."

After a short pause, she asks, "Where would you like them sent?"

I give her the name of Blaire's hotel.

"White Casablanca lilies," I tell her.

"Nothing oversized. Elegant, not excessive."

"Of course," she says. "Would you like a card?"

"Yes," I reply.

"What should it say?" she asks.

I look toward the windows for a moment before answering.

"No expectations. I just wanted you to have them. Initial it with R."

"I'll take care of it," she says.

"Thank you," I reply before ending the call and sliding the phone into my pocket.

For once, I don't overthink the gesture. I'm not trying to buy forgiveness or force a response out of her, and I'm not sending anything extravagant enough to make her feel obligated to acknowledge it. I simply want her to know that last night didn't reduce what I feel for her to sex.

By eight-thirty, I'm seated at the head of a conference table with twelve people discussing capital allocation, regulatory exposure, and a timeline that has already slipped by three weeks. For the next two hours, Blaire has no place in the room, and she shouldn't. I run the meeting the way I always do, pushing back on assumptions that aren't supported by the numbers and cutting off a proposed delay before it turns into another month of indecision.

By the time we move to the New York acquisition update, I've already approved one revision, rejected another, and assigned two follow-ups that should have been completed before anyone walked into the room. This is still my life, and Blaire being back in it doesn't change that. What it changes is what I'm willing to make room for.

During a short break between meetings, I check my phone. There's no message from her, which doesn't surprise me, so I put the phone back down and continue with the day.

The Geneva call runs long, and New York produces another financing issue. By early afternoon, I've barely left the conference floor when my phone finally vibrates beside my hand.

Blaire.

I open the message.

Blaire: The flowers are beautiful. You didn't have to do that.

I read it twice before typing back.

Ross: I know.

I leave it there without adding an invitation, a question, or any attempt to turn her thank-you into access. Several seconds later, another message appears.

Blaire: Thank you.

Something in my chest settles as I return the phone to the table and the next group enters the room. Last night reminded me how easily Blaire and I can still lose control around each other, but this morning makes something else equally clear. I don't want one night from her. I want enough time to show her that what I'm asking for now is different from anything we had before, and this time, I intend to earn whatever comes next.

I don’t see Blaire until late that afternoon. By then, I’ve survived two meetings, a financing review, and a New York call that ran twenty minutes over. I reach the archive shortly after four, just in time for the end of the Whitcombe review.