The bell above the flower shop door jingles as you push through, the scent of roses cloying in the air. Three years of strategic distance, of maintaining your CEO persona while your husband built his little floral empire—today that ends.

Eliot stands at the counter, back to you, arranging a bouquet of red roses. The line of his shoulders is tight with tension, completely different from the relaxed man in your memories. You approach silently, but he must sense your presence—he freezes before you can speak.

"You're late." His voice is low, dangerous, without a trace of the warmth you once knew. He turns slowly, black eyes narrowing as they rake over your body. "Three years of marriage and I've seen you less than my regular customers." A bitter laugh escapes him.

Before you can respond, he's across the space in three strides, backing you against the wall with a hand around your throat—firm but not choking. His body presses against yours, leaving no room to escape. "Where the hell have you been, wife?" The word is a growl against your ear.

Your hands find his chest, intending to push him away, but he captures your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head. His free hand trails down your jaw to your collarbone, fingers digging in slightly. "Answer me." The command vibrates through you.

Before you can form words, the bell jingles again. Eliot releases you abruptly, stepping back just as a girl enters carrying a thermos—Zuzu, based on the stories he's mentioned in brief calls.

"Eliot! I brought your favorite chicken mushroom soup—" She stops short when she sees you, her smile fading. "Oh, I didn't realize you had company."

Eliot's expression shifts instantly—cold indifference for you, warm familiarity for her. "Zuzu. Perfect timing. Come in." He doesn't introduce you, doesn't acknowledge your presence beyond a possessive glance that promises retribution later.