His Joke Our Shattered Vow

When I was seven, an assassin gave me a white gardenia.

That day, he watched me take the flower, then right in front of me, he pierced my mother's heart with a poisoned dagger. Afterward, he vanished into the night like a ghost.

From then on, white gardenias became my nightmare.

So on my wedding day, I told my husband, Nikolai Volkov, "If you ever decide this is over, just destroy our symbol."

Nikolai said nothing, only pulled me into a tight embrace.

From then on, white gardenias became his taboo as well.

In the fifth year of our marriage, Katarina Petrova, the daughter of an allied family, deliberately knocked over a prized gardenia plant he was cultivating for me in his study.

That same day, Nikolai nearly shattered Katarina's hand and forbade her from ever setting foot in our home again.

That day, I truly believed he was my destined salvation.

Six months later, I flew back from overseas, having just secured control of the "Free Port" for the family—a deal significant enough to reshape the entire New York underworld.

At the celebration party, Nikolai handed me a glass of vodka.

After I had drunk half of it, that so-called ally's daughter, the woman who was supposed to have been exiled, stood smiling behind me and traced her fingertips along his arm. "That gardenia," she asked, "does it still hurt?"

I stared at Nikolai in disbelief as he struggled to hold back a laugh.

"Don't be angry. Katarina insisted I play a little joke on you. I didn't really betray you; I just had a tattoo removed. But I think she has a point. You get so worked up over a flower. See? It’s not that serious."

My expression turned to ice. I flung the rest of the vodka onto the mangled skin of his arm, then turned and strode away.

Some things can never be a joke.

I would never joke about white gardenias, nor would I joke about loyalty and betrayal.

————————

1

"Ms. Donnelly, what you experienced was a PTSD episode, triggered by severe psychological distress. You can't risk another trigger like that. Next time, it might not just be a breakdown; we might have to sedate you. I want you to stay for observation overnight. Please, contact your family as soon as you can."

The words from our family doctor left me speechless.

I had spent 39 consecutive days overseas, battling at sunless negotiation tables for the "Free Port" project, only to return with a hard-won victory. I never imagined a so-called joke from Nikolai Volkov at our celebration party would land me in a hospital bed.

On instinct, I opened our pinned chat and started to type, but then I froze. Something was wrong.

I looked closer. It was definitely Nikolai's profile.

He had just changed his social media background. Now, it was a field of blooming black orchids.

Just as I was staring blankly at the chat window, Nikolai's call came through. His tone was cold.

"I'm home. Where are you sulking?"

I said nothing.

Ordinarily, I would have already been pleading for him to come get me. But tonight, I was at a loss for words.

Nikolai's voice crackled with impatience. "Rowan, how long are you going to keep up this act?"

"I'm at the clinic."

Nikolai fell silent. He never cared much about my health.

He would never guess that the blurry remnant of a tattoo on his arm would send me straight to the emergency room.

"Stay put. I'm on my way."

I didn't want to deal with him, but my body felt too heavy to move.

Time ticked by. The doctor checked on me three times, but Nikolai never appeared.

Just before I drifted off, I glanced at my phone one last time and saw a new post from Katarina Petrova.

[Every time I get hurt, my knight appears. I'm so lucky!]

The accompanying picture showed Nikolai holding her hand. On Katarina's wrist was a brand-new black orchid tattoo.

It was beautiful, but the sight of it made me sick.