The next morning, Alexa was stuffing clothes into a suitcase with a sense of grim resignation when her doorbell rang.
She expected Jeri, bubbly and apologetic for being late.
She opened the door to find Armando Holmes.
He stood in the narrow hallway of her apartment building, dressed in a perfectly tailored gray suit that probably cost more than her entire year's rent. He made the space feel small and cheap. His driver, Frankie Lau, stood silently behind him.
Armando's gaze swept over her small, cluttered living room, and a faint frown creased his brow.
"Mr. Holmes," she stammered. "What... where's Jeri?"
"She was delayed," he said, his voice smooth and dismissive, as if Jeri's whereabouts were a trivial detail. "I was in the neighborhood. I'll take your luggage."
The excuse was so thin it was transparent, but she was too intimidated to call him on it. She stepped back, allowing him to enter.
He walked past her and into her bedroom, leaving Frankie at the door. The intrusion felt like a violation. Her room was her sanctuary, small and girlish, with band posters on the wall and a collection of stuffed animals on a shelf.
His presence was like a panther in a rabbit hutch. It electrified the air with tension.
His eyes landed on her open suitcase, on the few outdated dresses her mother had insisted she pack. A wave of shame washed over her. She moved to close the suitcase, to hide her pathetic wardrobe from his critical gaze.
He caught her wrist. His grip was gentle but inescapable, his large hand completely enveloping hers. "Don't bother," he said. "Everything you need will be provided for you."
She tried to pull her hand away, but he held fast.
He drew her toward the window. On the sill, a small pink rose bush sat in a simple clay pot. It was her one indulgence, a plant she'd nurtured from a cutting, and it had just begun to bloom.
Armando looked from the delicate rose to her, his expression unreadable. He reached out with his free hand and lightly touched one of the velvety petals.
"Did you know, Alexa," he began, his voice a low murmur, "that some roses can't be kept in a simple pot?"
She stared at him, confused.
He turned his gaze back to her, his eyes intense. "They're too rare. Too delicate. They require the most meticulous care, the finest soil... and a private greenhouse to protect them from the elements."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken meaning. He was talking about the flower, but he was looking at her.
"You," he said, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper by her ear, "are that kind of rose." He paused, letting the words sink in. "And I happen to own the very best greenhouse."
The raw, possessive intimacy of the statement hit her like a physical blow. A hot blush spread from her neck to her cheeks, setting her skin on fire. Her mind went completely blank. She had no idea how to respond to such an adult, predatory form of flirtation.
He seemed pleased by her flustered silence. A ghost of a smile touched his lips.
He finally released her wrist, but her skin still tingled where he had touched her.
He picked up her half-packed suitcase as if it weighed nothing.
"Let's go," he said, turning toward the door. "My rare rose."
Alexa stood frozen, the new, shockingly intimate nickname ringing in her ears.
He paused at the bedroom door and looked back at her. His eyes held a silent, non-negotiable command.
Like a puppet on a string, she followed him out of her apartment, leaving the door to her old life swinging shut behind her.
