Losing Control

Hopefully I’ll see Cain soon and I can wring his bloody neck.

The lift is as smooth as the hotel staff, arriving within seconds of being called and taking us to the relevant floor without giving me too much time to think. I don’t even register the room number, simply follow Andrew blindly until he comes to the end of the corridor and we’re presented with double doors into what I know is going to be a suite.

A bloody suite? Really, Cain?

And...

Oh, my God.

The doors slide open and I’m gazing at glass walls far ahead, with a view that has me walking towards it, mesmerised. Forgetting Andrew. Forgetting Cain. Forgetting everything as Central Park stretches out before me, bigger than I could ever have imagined.

‘I hope you enjoy your stay, ma’am.’

‘Oh, yes—sorry, thank you.’

It’s beautiful, truly beautiful, and it’s not until I hear the door click shut that I turn away and remind myself that I’m here for work. Not to stand around all day, gazing at the amazing view which must have cost the company a fortune.

Another reason to have a go at Cain.

Determined, I head for my suitcase and freeze midstride. I’m in the living area; to my right is a curved sofa, designed to make the most of the floor-to-ceiling view, and on the table, in its centre, is the most beautiful arrangement of burnt orange roses.

I can’t ignore it.

I step closer and their fragrance reaches me. Closer still and I realise it isn’t an arrangement of cut flowers. It’s an actual rose bush.

This really is taking luxury a step too far, but I’m still lured by their beauty, my fingers reaching out to cup one bud as I lean in, close my eyes and take a deeper breath. Their scent is delicate, as beautiful as they look.

My eyes open and I spy an envelope among the buds with a solitary handwritten name: Lexi.

Flowers—no, an actual rose bush—to welcome me on a business trip?

No.

I find my hand is shaking as I bend to pluck the stark white rectangle from the vivid burst of colour and open it, anticipation coursing through me even though I know it’s foolhardy.

I step back towards the window and let the sunlight warm me as I read:

I wanted to do something special to remember our Rose. I know I can’t turn back the clock and be there for you when you needed me most, but I can be there from this day forth.

Love always,

Cain x

I’m stunned. Hot and cold at once. This isn’t about business. This is about us. About us and Rose.

Our Rose.

I look back at the flowers, find my legs moving towards them, and then I see the label protruding from a stick at its base and its name.

Little Rose O’Connor

I choke back a sob, my eyes overflowing, disbelieving. I pull out the label, stare at it some more, and then realise it’s official. He’s had a variety of rose named after our daughter. And I know the colour is no accident.

‘Mum told me she had hair like yours.’

Cain.

I spin towards his voice and almost feel as if he’s a figment of my imagination. He’s there beside my suitcase, wearing a navy sweater and jeans, the epitome of casual. But the intensity of his eyes takes my breath away. He steps forward, just a few strides before he pauses. He’s hesitant.