Chapter 14

       Lorcan cursed under his breath.

       This was supposed to be a flawless first date—controlled, clean, even impressive. But no. He’d miscalculated. Let his precision get tangled with instinct. And now Seranna had walked away, leaving him with nothing but his own self-reproach.

       It was his fault. He should’ve done his research—understood her, understood women, emotions, reactions—before trying to play the part of someone who could navigate them.

       Now he stood in front of a flower boutique, unmoving.

       A soft breeze teased the edge of his pressed collar, tousling his neatly combed hair. His hands stayed in his pockets, clenched in conflict. Flowers? A bouquet could be a peace offering… but he didn’t know her favorite color. Or bloom. Something about roses felt too common. Too presumptuous.

       Or should he just go to her mansion and apologize in person? Would that be worse?

       He exhaled, frustrated at the indecision gnawing at him.

       And then—out of nowhere—a laugh.

       He glanced sideways.

       A child came skipping out of a nearby shop, clutching a bright yellow doll in her arms. She looked overjoyed—practically glowing as she ran toward her mother. The doll wasn’t particularly elegant. It wasn’t expensive-looking. Just round, yellow, and vaguely dinosaur-shaped.

       Why that doll? Why did it make the girl smile like that?

       Lorcan narrowed his eyes.

       It didn’t matter whether he understood it. He wasn’t a woman. He wasn’t a child. He wasn’t Seranna. But maybe it wasn’t about how the doll looked. Maybe it was about how it made her feel.

       That was it.

       Without wasting another second, he turned sharply and entered the store the child had just exited. A narrow boutique, cluttered with accessories and shelves lined with plush toys and pastel-colored stationery.

       He looked around briefly before his patience wore thin. Straight to the point.

       “Where’s the yellow stuff?”

       The employee blinked. “We have a lot of yellow items, Sir. Could you be more specific?”

       Of course. Another mistake. Lorcan clenched his jaw. “I think it was a dinosaur.”

       Recognition lit up her face. “Ah! I think I know what you’re looking for. Please, follow me.”

       She led him to a shelf filled with absurdly cheerful, bright yellow dinosaur-themed items. Plushies, keychains, even phone holders.

       “This one’s been going viral lately,” the employee said, picking up a round, smiling dinosaur plush. “Its name’s Nailong. Very popular—everyone loves it.”

       Lorcan stared at the shelf.

       Bright. Childish. Slightly ridiculous.

       And yet… if it could bring that kind of joy, maybe—

       “Pack the whole shelf,” he said.

       The employee’s eyes widened. “All of it, Sir?”

       “All of it,” Lorcan repeated, already reaching for his black card. If he couldn’t say the right thing yet… maybe he could at least show he was trying.

***

       Boxes.

       Four of them, stacked high in his arms, sealed and tied with twine by a slightly amused shopkeeper who had clearly never had someone buy out an entire shelf of Nailong merchandise before noon.

       Lorcan didn’t care. He pushed the boutique door open with his elbow, stepped out into the sunlight, and strode back toward the flower shop like a man on a mission.

       This was absurd. No—strategic. Absurdity with intention.

       The bell above the florist’s door chimed again as he entered. The air inside was thick with petals and perfume, but he barely noticed now. The woman behind the counter, middle-aged and sharp-eyed, gave him a long look—first at the boxes, then at him.

       “Welcome to Dreamy Flowers, Sir. Ho may I help you for today?” she asked.

       Lorcan set the boxes down with a solid thump. “I’d like to commission a bouquet,”

       She approached, glancing at the packaging. “Of… flowers?”

       “No. Not flowers,” He opened the top box, revealing a sea of bright yellow plush dinosaurs smiling up at them like they knew what he was planning.

       The florist raised a brow. “You want a bouquet of… these?”

       “Yes. A ridiculous, over-the-top, unforgettable bouquet of these,” He paused. “Make it tasteful. If that’s even possible.”

       She stared at him for a beat. “Girlfriend mad at you?”

       He exhaled. “Not officially.”

       “Right,” Her tone was dry, but not unkind. She walked around the counter and pulled a roll of silk ribbon from a drawer. “How big are we talking?”

       “Big enough to make her stop being mad just long enough to ask what I’m thinking.”

       The florist chuckled softly, already selecting a few complementary wrapping papers in pale cream and silver. “You’re in luck. I specialize in romantic damage control.”

       As she worked, Lorcan paced.

       He didn’t know if Seranna would even accept it. She could easily have the whole thing sent back with a glare. But the idea of showing up empty-handed, of trying to explain himself with words that always came out too sharp or too flat—he couldn’t risk that again.

       At least Nailong didn’t need the right phrasing. Nailong just grinned.

       Almost half an hour later, she handed him the result.

       A bouquet the size of a toddler, wrapped in soft tissue and fine mesh, carefully arranged with a dozen Nailong plushies like flowers in bloom. Each one seemed to tilt a little in a different direction—cheerful, clueless, undeniably sincere.

       It looked stupid.

       It looked perfect.

       He handed over his card. “Thank you,”

       “Good luck,” the florist said, already turning back to her counter. “You’ll need it.”

       Lorcan exited the shop with the massive bouquet in his arms and one thought running through his mind.

       This better not blow up in his face.

***

       Lorcan drove in silence, the city blurring past his windows in muted streaks of light and shadow. But his eyes kept drifting—again and again—toward the passenger seat.

       There it was.

       A full bouquet of grinning, pouting, crying, and silly yellow Nailongs, bundled with the delicacy of fresh tulips, ribboned and wrapped like something out of a fever dream. Beside it, several other boxes sat stacked neatly—more Nailong plushies, keychains, a ridiculous phone stand with stubby dinosaur limbs.

       He caught their reflection in the rear-view mirror and immediately regretted it.

       “God…” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

       Heat crept up the back of his neck, settling stubbornly across his cheeks. Not because of traffic. Not because of anything rational. But because he was, for the first time in years, genuinely mortified by himself.

       He was Lorcan Millesernan. Rational. Composed. Sharpened by expectation and experience. And here he was, armed with plush dinosaurs as if they were weapons of apology.

       Another glance at the bouquet.

       The absurd smiling faces stared back, utterly unbothered. Mocking him, in their way.

       He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, jaw clenching.

       This had better work.

       Or Nailong was going extinct tonight.

***

       The iron gate to Seranna’s estate opened with a low mechanical hum, and Lorcan eased the car forward down the long stone driveway, flanked by manicured hedges and cold exterior lights. The house came into view—sleek, angular, and unapologetically private. No family crest. Just a single elegant home that looked like it didn’t want company.

       Fitting.

       He parked near the entrance, engine ticking softly in the quiet night. The house stared back, unmoved.

       For a moment, he didn’t move either.

       Then he reached across the seat, picked up the ridiculous bouquet—yellow Nailongs and all—and stepped out into the still air. The wind tugged faintly at the edge of his tux. He paused only once to adjust the boxes under his arm, exhaling as if to steady something inside him that had started to fray.

       The walkway stretched ahead, silent and clinical under the wash of pale lighting. Lorcan moved forward, bouquet in one hand, stacked boxes of Nailong merchandise in the other, footsteps measured over smooth stone.

       He reached the entrance—no doorbell. No knocker. Just a small circular panel beside the frame. He stared at his reflection in it for a brief second, then the panel flickered—scanned his face silently—and blinked green.

       A soft hiss of hydraulics.

       The doors parted inward without a sound.

       Lorcan had expected it to feel like stepping into a museum.

       The interior was cool, modern, and dimly lit with recessed lighting. Polished wood, matte steel, and silence. No signs of life—until a figure emerged from the hallway with calm, unhurried steps.

       The butler.

        Dressed in a deep grey suit, neatly pressed and perfectly aligned with the home’s aesthetic, the man looked at him with the kind of neutrality that could freeze air.

       “Mr. Millesernan,” he greeted with a small bow. “Miss Seranna is aware you are here.”

       That could mean anything.

       Still, Lorcan dipped his head in return. “I’d like to speak with her.”

       The butler’s gaze flicked to the bouquet of… well, absurdity in Lorcan’s hands. A single brow lifted by a millimeter—no more—but Lorcan felt it like a slap.

       “I will inform her,” the butler said coolly. “You may wait in the north sitting room.”

        He stepped aside, gesturing toward a corridor down the left wing.

       Lorcan nodded, heart rattling too close to his throat, and followed the direction given. The boxes shifted awkwardly in his arms. His confidence faltered at every silent step deeper into Seranna’s space.

       He knew she lived alone. By choice.

       No Geraski guards. She had her own bodyguards, called the Bolden Drakar that he wondered where were all those men had gone. Because he hadntseen them anywhere.

       And now him.

       Invited? Not really.

       Tolerated? Hopefully.

       He reached the north sitting room—glass walls and leather armchairs arranged like chess pieces. Moonlight spilled in from a skylight above, cutting sharp shapes across the floor.

       Lorcan set the bouquet down first, then the boxes, carefully arranging them like offerings at some altar he didn’t understand. He ran a hand through his hair and let out a long breath.

       Then he waited.

       And the waiting was the worst part.

***