The flowers were the first thing she saw.
They were arranged on every available surface of her office—her desk, the windowsill, the small table by the door where she usually dropped her coat. White peonies and pale lavender, her favorites, the specific combination that she had mentioned exactly once in passing to Ricky three years ago during a conversation about a charity gala centerpiece she'd found tolerable in a sea of terrible floral arrangements.
He'd remembered.
Of course he had.
Aurora set her bag down slowly and looked at the room. The scent of them was everywhere—clean and faintly sweet, softening the edges of the office's usual glass-and-steel efficiency. In the middle of her desk, between the flowers, sat a small package wrapped in brown paper and a cream envelope with her name on it in Ricky's handwriting. Beside the package, a note in the same hand.
Forgive me.
She picked up the envelope first.
