Chapter 7

After that, it was like Ethan had planted himself in Charlotte's life.

On Monday, he popped up at the café across from her flower shop and stayed there the whole afternoon.

Whenever Charlotte was wrapping bouquets, she'd sneak a glance and spot his blurry silhouette through the window. She acted like she hadn't seen him at all.

On Wednesday, the flower shop got slammed with a massive order. A company needed all the flowers in the shop.

Charlotte spent the whole day wrapping bouquets, her back so sore she could barely straighten up. Maggie was ranting, "Who in their right mind buys this many flowers? Is someone hosting a funeral or what?"

The delivery address was Carter Holdings.

Charlotte glanced at the name signed on the order, froze for a second, then quietly tucked the order away and went back to wrapping flowers.

Friday night, after closing up the shop, Charlotte was heading home through the alley when she heard footsteps behind her.

The pace was steady, always about twenty steps back. She didn't look over her shoulder, but her heart was racing.

When she got to the entrance of her building, she stopped. "Come out."

Someone stepped out from the shadows under the trees. It was Ethan, wearing a black hoodie with the hood down, showing his sharp, stoic face.

The streetlight hit him, and Charlotte saw he'd gotten thinner, his chin rough with stubble, and his eyes red, like he hadn't gotten any sleep lately.

"You've been following me for three days," Charlotte said.

"How did you know?" Ethan asked.

"The cup of coffee you left sitting cold for four hours at the café across from my shop. That massive 'company order' on Wednesday. The delivery address was Carter Holdings." She paused. "And your car's engine? It's loud enough to wake the dead."

Ethan stood there, silent for what felt like forever.

He was under the streetlight, about five steps away from her, close enough to spot the tiny droplets clinging to her lashes, probably from wrapping flowers earlier, but out of reach.

"I'm sorry," Ethan said.

Three years of marriage, and he'd never once said those words to her until now.

Charlotte looked at him.

The streetlight cast half her face in shadow, half in light. Her expression was calm, like a still lake with no ripples. But her hand was clenched tight in her pocket, her nails digging into her palm, a faint sting.

"Mr. Carter," she said, "there's nothing between us anymore."

The formal title was like a wall, standing between them.

Ethan opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but it felt like his throat was blocked.

He had so much he wanted to say, like "I was wrong," "I miss you," "I regret it." But all those words were about what he wanted, not about her. None of them was "Are you okay?"

He had no right to ask if she was okay anymore.

Charlotte waited a few seconds, but he stayed silent. She turned and walked through the gate. The iron gate slowly closed behind her, locking with a soft click.

Charlotte stood inside the gate, listening for his footsteps, but he never followed.

She bit her lip and rushed into the building. As soon as the elevator doors closed behind her, she couldn't hold it in anymore. Her tears spilled out.

She slumped against the elevator wall, head tipped back, letting the tears soak into her hair.

"Don't cry," she told herself. "Don't let yourself cry for the same man twice."

But this was already the second time. The first was when she signed the divorce papers, sitting in the back of a taxi, leaning against the window, quietly crying the whole way.

The driver kept sneaking glances at her in the rearview mirror and finally handed her a pack of tissues.

She thought that would be the last time she'd ever shed tears for him.

When the elevator reached her floor, she wiped her tears, stepped out, fished out her keys, and opened the door.

Inside, she didn't turn on the lights. She stood there for a while, leaning against the door. In the darkness, she could hear her heartbeat quick and chaotic.

She remembered how Ethan looked standing under the streetlight, thinner, haggard, and in his eyes, something she'd never seen before.

It wasn't the cold, hard gaze of a CEO, or the distant indifference of a husband. It was something else, like a lost child.

She closed her eyes and pushed the memory away.

"Charlotte," she told herself, "don't let yourself go soft. If you do, you'll end up right back in that dark, empty home."

She didn't want to go back.